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ClIAHACTER-SKETCIIES. 


ARxXAUD-MACAULAY-KLOPSTOCK  AND   HIS   META 
MARY  SOMERVILLE- MADAME  DE  STAEL- 
VOLTAlRE-CHAi\x\D(G-WESLEY. 


BV 


ABEL    STEVENS,    LL.D 


Uyi7BR3I 


A^EIV  YORK:   HUNT  &-   EATON. 

CINCINNATI:  CRANSTON  dr*  STOWE. 

1S89. 


Copyright  1882,  by 

PHILLIPS    &    HUNT, 

New  York. 

■i-2-7fO 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTKB  PACK 

I.  Arnaud,  "Pastor  and  Colonel "  — Heroism 5 

II.  Macaulay — Literary  Life 53 

III.  Klopstock  and  his  Met  a — Love  and  Literature.  ioS 

IV.  Mary  Somerville — Woman  and  Science 154 

V.  Madame  de  Stael — Woman  and  Literature 186 

VI.  Voltaire  among  the  Swiss — Literary  Power 248 

VII.  Channing — Heresy  and  Reform 296 

VIII.  Wesley — Apostleship 352 


'•[JHIVBRSITY] 
CHARACTER-SKETCHES, 


ARNAUD,   "PASTOR  AND  COLONEL"— HEROISM. 

A  NOTABLE  old  book  has  been  lately  repro- 
duced by  the  Paris  press.  It  was  mostly 
written  by  Henri  Arnaud,  *'  Pastor  and  Colonel  of 
the  Vaudois,"  a  man  who,  preaching,  praying,  and 
fighting  for  the  faith  which  was  once  delivered 
unto  the  saints,  would  have  gladdened  the  heart 
of  Cromwell,  and  who  deserves  to  be  ranked 
among  the  heroes  of  history.  The  recent  edition 
of  the  work  is,  as  nearly  as  possible,  a  reproduction 
in  form,  typography,  etc.,  of  the  original  edition, 
issued  about  a  century  and  three  quarters  ago.  Its 
full  title,  almost  literally  rendered,  is  "  The  History 
of  the  Glorious  Return  of  the  Vaudois  into  their 
Valleys ;  in  which  it  will  be  seen  that  a  troop  of 
these  people,  less  than  a  thousand  strong,  sus- 
tained a  war  against  the  King  of  France  and  the 
Duke  of  Sayoy ;  made  headway  against  their  army 
of  twenty-two  thousand  men ;  opened  a  passage 
through  Savoy  and   High  Dauphiny;    beat  many 


6  Character-Sketches. 

times  the  enemy,  and  at  last  miraculously  re- 
entered their  heritage ;  maintained  themselves 
therein,  arms  in  hand,  and  re-established  the  wor- 
ship of  God,  which  had  been  interdicted  during 
three  years  and  a  half.  The  whole  compiled  from 
memoirs  which  have  been  faithfully  made  of  all 
that  occurred  in  this  war  of  the  Vaudois,"  etc. 

We  propose  to  narrate,  though  it  must  be  in 
mere  outline,  the  **  Glorious  Return ;  "  but  some 
preliminary  pages  are  necessary.  An  American 
writer  complains  of  the  comparative  ignorance  of 
our  Churches  respecting  the  Vaudois  —  the  most 
interesting  people,  perhaps,  in  the  whole  history  of 
Christendom  since  the  apostolic  age.  American 
Christians  know,  in  a  vague  way,  that  somewhere  in 
the  mountains  between  France  and  Italy  lived  and 
still  linger  the  Waldenses ;  that  they  have  had  a 
curiously  antique  history;  and  that,  since  the  uni- 
fication of  Italy,  they  have  been  descending  their 
mountains  to  propagate  pure  Christianity  over  the 
peninsula,  for  which  task  they  have  peculiar  advan- 
tages as  Italians,  with  the  national  language  for 
their  vernacular. 

Only  the  best-informed  minds  among  us  know 
how  surpassingly  marvelous  has  been  their  history, 
and  how  equally  marvelous  seems  their  destiny ; 
that  in  their  valleys,  up  among  the  snows  and 
clouds  of  the  Cottian  Alps,  looking  down  to  the 
south-eastward  upon  Italy,  and  to  the  north-west- 


Arnaud,  ''Pastor  and  Colonel."  7 

ward  upon  France,  they  maintained  their  Church, 
pure  in  doctrine,  morals,  and  polity,  as  that  of 
Scotland  itself,  while  all  the  rest  of  Europe  fell 
away  into  paganized  Christianity ;  that,  according 
to  their  local  traditions,  their  religious  history 
dates  from  the  time  of  Paul's  preaching  in  Rome ; 
that  Paul  himself  possibly  passed  through  their 
valleys  on  his  way  to  Spain  ;  that,  at  least,  some  of 
his  Roman  converts,  or  their  early  successors,  fled 
at  the  outbreak  of  the  imperial  persecutions  into 
these  mountains,  and  founded  the  faith  which  re- 
mains there  in  our  day;  that  while,  century  after 
century,  all  the  rest  of  the  Christian  world  was 
sunk  in  moral  death,  and  shrouded  in  the  night  of 
the  Dark  Ages,  the  pure  apostolic  light  shone  un- 
dimmed  on  these  mountain  heights ;  that  France 
on  the  one  hand,  Italy  on  the  other,  prompted  by 
Rome,  attempted  age  after  age  to  break  through 
the  Alpine  barriers  and  extinguish  the  strange 
heresy,  as  it  was  called  ;  that  the  one  terrible  St, 
Bartholomew's  Day  of  France  went  on  here  through 
successive  generations,  but  in  vain ;  that  every  val- 
ley, almost  every  cliff,  has  its  traditions  of  martyr- 
dom ;  that  deeds  of  prowess  by  the  mountaineers, 
hurling  back  the  hosts  of  papal  invaders,  now  on 
France,  now  on  Italy,  in  at  least  thirty-three  dis- 
tinct wars,  have  given  them  a  heroic  history  never 
surpassed  in  the  military  annals  of  any  other  peo- 
ple,  dotting  their  territory  with    scores   of  Ther- 


8  Character-Sketches. 

mopylaes  and  Marathons;  that,  after  centuries  of 
praying,  watching,  and  fighting  for  their  faith,  they 
stood,  bearing  arms,  amid  the  ruins  of  their  homes 
and  their  churches,  and  laid  down  their  weapons 
only  when  a  solemn  pledge  from  the  enemy  con- 
ceded their  rights ;  that  this  pledge  was  immedi- 
ately violated,  nearly  all  their  heroic  men  impris- 
oned in  thirteen  Piedmontese  dungeons,  their 
children  put  in  Catholic  schools,  their  women  in 
nunneries ;  that  the  Vaudois  were  at  last  consid- 
ered extinguished,  their  own  historians,  who  had 
fled  to  other  countries,  declaring  "  the  ancient 
Church  of  the  mountains,"  the  "  Israel  of  the  Alps," 
"obliterated,"  "irrecoverably  lost,"  as  one  of  them 
said ;  that  of  the  fourteen  thousand  heroic  pris- 
oners of  Piedmont  all  died  of  starvation  or  disease 
save  three  thousand,  who,  hberated  at  last,  but 
forbidden  ever  to  re-enter  their  valleys,  made  their 
way  to  Protestant  Switzerland  and  Germany ;  that 
seven  or  eight  hundred  of  them  afterward  com- 
bined under  a  vow  to  redeem  their  lost  cause  and 
country,  armed  themselves  clandestinely,  marched, 
under  the  command  of  their  pastor,  Arnaud, 
through  the  most  intricate  ravines  of  Switzerland 
and  Savoy,  under  the  shadow  of  Mont  Blanc,  along 
the  cliffs  of  Mont  Cenis,  through  passages  in  which 
only  mountaineers  could  make  their  way,  with  no 
commissariat,  each  man  carrying  his  own  ammuni- 
tion  and    food,    the    CathoHc   towns    and   villas^es 


Arnaud,  **  Pastor  and  Colonel."         9 

rising  against  them,  but  quailing  before  them,  as  if 
a  terror  from  God  had  fallen  upon  the  land  ;  that 
France  on  the  one  hand,  Italy  on  the  other,  sent 
armies  to  arrest  their  triumphant  march,  twenty-two 
thousand  men  in  all;  that  the  band  of  Vaudois  rolled 
back  the  enemy  in  victorious  fights,  entered  their  an- 
cient valleys  with  singing  and  shouting,  fought  the 
Catholic  foe  from  rock  to  rock  through  months,  sup- 
plying themselves  with  ammunition  only  by  their 
victories,  destroying  ten  thousand  of  the  enemy  in 
eighteen  victorious  attacks,  winning  peace  at  last, 
restoring  their  old  ho'mes,  schools,  and  churches, 
receiving  their  expatriated  wives  and  children, 
sheltering  even  their  persecuting  sovereign,  who 
had  to  flee  from  his  enemies  below  to  seek  their 
protection  ;  and  that,  re-established  in  their  mount- 
ains and  enfranchised  by  their  government,  they 
are  now  bearing  the  Gospel  over  Italy,  and  are 
thus  displaying  before  the  eyes  of  this  skeptical  age 
the  providential  significance  of  their  history. 

Such  are  a  few  mere  allusions  to  this  remarkable 
history — the  most  remarkable,  we  are  inclined  to 
think,  on  record.  We  delay  not  to  discuss  the 
questions  which  have  excited  so  much  inquiry 
among  European  scholars  respecting  the  date  of 
the  origin  of  the  Vaudois,  a  date  lost  in  the  ob- 
scurity of  remote  time.  We  have  mentioned  their 
own  traditions  on  the  subject,  as  attested  by  Ar- 
naud, in  his  history  of  the  Glorieuse  Rentree,     We 


lo  Character-Sketches. 

know  that  centuries  before  the  Reformation  they 
were  a  pure  Church  ;  that  their  doctrines,  forms  of 
worship,  church  government,  show  no  traces  of 
ever  having  been  reformed,  as  they  show  none  of 
ever  having  needed  reform.  We  know,  also,  that 
as  early  as  the  fourth  century  St.  Ambrose,  Bishop 
of  Milan,  testifies  that  the  Church  corruptions  of 
Italy  had  not  penetrated  these  mountains,  and 
that  in  about  the  year  1125,  Catholic  writers  allude 
to  them  as  soiled  by  inveterate  lieresy.  These  evi- 
dences are  sufficient  for  our  present  purpose,  and 
we  can  now  approach  our  main  subject. 

The  Glorieuse  Rentree  originated  in  the  persecu- 
tions which  attended  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantes.  The  Vaudois  on  the  French  side  of  the 
Cottian  Alps  were,  of  course,  included  in  that  most 
impolitic  and  disastrous  measure  of  Louis  XIV. 
The  king  was  determined  to  extinguish  Protestant- 
ism in  France.  According  to  the  historian  Cape- 
figue — himself  no  friend  to  Protestantism — no  less 
than  two  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  Protestants 
fled  from  their  country  to  escape  the  persecution ; 
nearly  one  thousand  six  hundred  of  these  were 
preachers,  two  thousand  three  hundred  were  elders 
of  the  Churches,  fifteen  thousand  were  "  gentle- 
men," the  others  mostly  merchants  and  artisans — 
the  best  in  the  kingdom.  Capefigue's  figures  were 
taken  from  official  statistical  returns  made  at  the 
period ;    the    emigration    continued    years    later. 


Arnaud,  "  Pastor  and  Colonel/'         i  i 

Charles  Coquerel  says  that  the  revocation  "  kept 
France  under  a  perpetual  St.  Bartholomew's  for 
about  sixty  years,"  and  that  more  than  a  million 
of  the  best  citizens  were  either  driven  abroad, 
sent  to  the  galleys  or  to  dungeons,  or  put  to  death. 
A  single  province,  that  of  Languedoc,  was  officially 
reported  to  have  sacrificed  a  hundred  thousand  by 
the  wheel,  the  sword,  or  the  gibbet.  Three  years 
before  the  revocation,  the  Protestant  pastors  re- 
ported to  the  Government  one  million  eight  hun- 
dred Protestant  households  in  the  kingdom ;  in 
about  twenty-five  years  after  that  act,  the  king 
declared  that  Protestantism  was  exterminated  in 
France.  His  bigoted  and  ferocious  policy  had 
struck  disastrously  the  best  interests  of  his  coun- 
try, but  it  had  laid  the  foundations  of  the  manu- 
facturing and  commercial  prosperity  of  the  Low 
Countries  of  England,  and  of  much  of  Germany, 
and  had  given  to  the  American  colonies  some  of 
their  best  families,  from  New  Rochelle  to  Savan- 
nah. The  emigration  comprised  some  twenty-one 
thousand  Protestant  soldiers  and  sailors,  and  six 
hundred  military  officers.  Most  of  these  entered 
foreign  service,  and  avenged  on  France  in  many  a 
battle  the  wrongs  of  their  brethren.  Thousands 
helped  to  save  the  Protestant  throne  of  England 
by  fighting  in  Ireland  against  the  attempt  of  Louis 
XIV.  to  restore  the  apostate  Stuarts.  They  con- 
quered their  old  persecutors  at  the  battle  of  the 


12  Character-Sketches. 

Boyne,  and  on  other  Irish  fields.  Marshal  Schom- 
berg  was  one  of  them.  Their  descendants  in  Ger- 
many, still  bearing  their  ancestral  names,  were 
among  the  best  heroes  of  the  last  war  with  France ; 
and  Jules  Simon,  the  French  statesman,  had  occa- 
sion to  show  his  country  that  the  revocation  of 
the  Edict  of  Nantes  had  given  at  least  eighty 
eminent  officers  of  the  German  staff  of  the  terrible 
invasion  of  1870,  by  which  France  was  trodden  in 
the  dust. 

The  king's  assertion,  that  his  realm  was  emptied 
of  Protestants,  was  apparently,  though  not  really, 
correct.  The  Protestant  houses  of  worship  were 
either  demolished  or  given  to  the  Catholics.  Prot- 
estant pastors  were  hanged  or  broken  on  the  wheel 
all  over  the  south.  None  remained  except  in  con- 
cealment, and  with  the  certainty  of  death  if  they 
were  discovered.  Their  people  could  worship  only 
in  caves,  or  in  recesses  of  forests.  Never  was  there 
a  more  studiedly  minute  or  more  diabolical  edict 
issued  by  a  government  than  the  Act  of  Revoca- 
tion, and  its  accompanying  acts.  They  reached  all 
classes  and  all  interests  of  the  Protestant  popula- 
tion. It  was  death  if  they  were  found  worshiping 
in  public ;  it  was  the  galleys  for  life  if  they  were 
heard  singing  their  hymns  in  their  own  houses.  It 
was  five  hundred  livres  fine  if  they  did  not  send 
their  children  to  the  Catholic  priest  for  baptism. 
Protestant   marriages  were   illegal,  and   their  chil- 


Arnaud,  "Pastor  and  Colonel."        13 

drcn  illegitimate.  All  children  above  five  years 
of  age  were  to  be  taken  by  the  magistrate  from 
Protestant  homes.  Protestant  midwives  were  for- 
bidden to  assist  their  Christian  sisters  in  childbirth. 
Protestant  physicians,  surgeons,  druggists,  lawyers, 
notaries,  school-teachers,  librarians,  booksellers, 
printers,  grocers,  were  all  suppressed — and  there 
were  hundreds  of  thousands  of  them.  All  Prot- 
estant schools,  charitable,  public,  or  private,  were 
closed.  Protestants  could  no  longer  be  in  any 
government  employment,  even  as  workingmen  on 
the  highways.  All  Bibles  and  Protestant  books 
were  to  be  publicly  burned.  "  There  were  bonfires 
of  them,"  says  a  good  authority,  "  in  every  town." 
Protestants  were  not  allowed  to  seek  employment 
as  servants,  nor  Protestant  families  to  hire  them, 
the  penalty  being  the  galleys  for  life.  Protestant 
mechanics  were  not  allowed  to  work  without  cer- 
tificates that  they  had  become  Catholics.  Even 
Protestant  washerwomen  were  interdicted  the  com- 
mon washing-places  on  the  rivers.  "  In  fact,"  says 
Samuel  Smiles,  our  best  popular  authority  on 
French  Protestantism,  "  there  was  scarcely  a  degra- 
dation that  could  be  invented,  or  an  insult  that 
could  be  perpetrated,  that  was  not  practiced  upon 
these  poor  Huguenots  who  refused  to  be  of  the 
king's  religion."  Such  was  the  persecution  of  the 
infamous  Revocation.  According  to  Coquerel's 
statement,  it  drove  a  million  of  the  French  out  of 


14  Character-Sketches. 

their  country,  and  suppressed  a  thousand  pastors, 
one  tenth  of  whom  were  either  put  to  death  or  en- 
dured a  worse  fate  in  the  horrors  of  the  galleys. 

When  the  king  supposed  his  work  of  extermina- 
tion done,  he  was  reminded  of  the  humble  Vaudois, 
hidden  away  in  the  ravines  of  the  French  side  of  the 
Cottian  Alps.  The  atrocious  work  could  not  be 
pronounced  complete  while  these  remained.  The 
light  might  again  stream  down  from  these  heretic 
heights  upon  the  plains  and  towns  of  southern 
France.  They  were  one  in  faith,  and  in  almost 
every  other  respect,  except  political  allegiance, 
with  the  Italian  Vaudois  of  the  other  side  of  the 
mountains.  The  king,  therefore,  demanded  the 
co-operation  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy  in  the  exter- 
mination of  both.  The  duke  hesitated ;  blood 
enough  had  flowed  in  these  mountains,  and  but 
thirty  years  before  fourteen  thousand  of  their  de- 
voted population  had  been  massacred,  in  vain; 
they  appeared  invincible ;  but  he  had  to  yield  to 
the  superior  sovereign,  who  threatened  to*  do  the 
bloody  work  himself  and  to  appropriate  the  terri- 
tory as  his  own.  Thus  began  the  thirty-third  war 
against  these  unconquerable  mountaineers.  The 
armies  of  both  nations  made  simultaneous  inva- 
sions ;  terrible  struggles  ensued  at  three  or  four 
different  points,  but  we  cannot  here  detail  them. 
On  Easter  Monday,  1686,  a  general  attack  was 
made.     The  pastor,  Arnaud,  became  this  day  first 


Arnaud,  "  Pastor  and  Colonel."         15 

known  as  a  hero— the  hope  of  the  persecuted  peo- 
ple for  the  future,  if  not  for  the  present.  The  Duke 
of  Savoy  led  one  attack ;  Catinat,  with  his  French, 
another.  Both  were  hurled  back  the  first  day;  on 
the  next,  Catinat  destroyed  the  little  force  opposed 
to  him,  and  massacred  men,  women,  and  children. 
The  commanders  of  the  Italian  troop  sent  messen- 
gers to  the  Vaudois  at  other  points,  assuring  them 
that  their  brethren  in  the  Valley  of  St.  Martin  had 
surrendered  and  received  pardon ;  the  positive 
promise  of  the  duke,  assuring  them  of  their  pardon, 
their  lives,  and  liberties,  was  declared  to  them, 
and  on  this  pledge  they  laid  down  their  arms,  sur- 
rendering impregnable  positions.  Immediately  the 
pledge  was  violated;  they  were  loaded  with  irons, 
and  fourteen  thousand  of  them,  according  to  Ar- 
naud were  incarcerated  in  the  prisons  of  Piedmont. 
"Their  children,"  says  the  historian  Mustan,  ''were 
carried  off  and  dispersed  through  Roman  Catholic 
districts ;  their  wives  and  daughters  were  violated, 
massacred,  or  made  captives.  As  for  those  who 
still  remained,  all  whom  the  enemy  could  seize  be- 
came a  prey  devoted  to  carnage,  spoliation,  fire,  ex- 
cess which  cannot  be  told,  and  outrages  which  it 
would  not  be  possible  to  describe." 

The  great  aim  of  the  Revocation  was  now  sup- 
posed to  be  accomplished.  Louis  XIV.  declared,  as 
we  have  seen,  that  there  were  no  more  Protestants 
in  his  realm.     One  of  his  officers  in  these  mountains 


1 6  Character-Sketches. 

wrote  that  "  all  the  valleys  are  now  depopulated ;  the 
people  all  killed,  hanged,  or  massacred."  '*  Rome," 
says  Smiles,  ''rang  with  Te  Demns  in  praise  of 
the  final  dispersion  of  the  Vaudois."  The  Pope 
congratulated  the  Duke  of  Savoy  in  a  special  brief. 
Roman  Catholics  were  settled  in  the  valleys  on  the 
lands  of  the  dispersed  Protestants.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  one  of  their  historians,  a  refugee  in  Lon- 
don, wrote,  "  The  world  looks  upon  them  no  other- 
wise than  as  irrecoverably  lost  and  finally  destroyed." 
But  the  Vaudois  Church  was  inextinguishable ;  it 
was  still  alive  in  the  thirteen  dungeons  of  Piedmont. 
Of  the  fourteen  thousand  prisoners  there,  many 
were  daily  perishing  by  hunger,  thirst,  or  disease, 
martyrs  for  their  apparently  lost  cause  ;  eleven  thou- 
sand thus  perished,  according  to  Arnaud,  and  the 
three  thousand  that  at  last  came  forth  to  wander  in 
foreign  lands  looked,  he  says,  "  more  like  shadows 
than  men."  On  reaching  Protestant  Switzerland 
they  were  but  "  moving  skeletons,"  he  adds.  The 
people  of  Geneva  were  affected  with  deepest  pity 
for  them,  and  as  they  moved  along,  some  to  Lau- 
sanne, some  to  Berne,  to  Basle,  to  Neufchatel,  and 
into  Germany,  they  were  not  only  fed  and  sheltered^ 
but  many  of  the  feebler  sufferers  were  borne  in  th^ 
arms  of  the  good  citizens.  Some  died  on  the  route. 
The  scene  reminded  the  generous  Swiss  of  the 
hosts  who,  in  the  days  of  their  fathers,  had  filled 
their    highways,    fleeing   from    the    horrors    of  St. 


Arnaud,  ''  Pastor  and  Colonel."         17 

Bartholomew's  in  France;  and  many  a  devout  heart 
sent  up  the  appeal  to  heaven,  '*  How  long,  O  Lord, 
how  long?"  They  dare  not  dream  that  these 
'*  moving  skeletons  "  were  soon  to  rise  up  like  those 
of  the  '*  valley  of  vision,"  and  bear  again  to  their 
ancient  mountain  heights  the  standard  of  the  faith, 
and  thence  march  down  at  last  with  triumphant 
hymns  to  Rome  itself. 

Assuredly  such  a  purpose,  in  such  circumstances, 
must  have  been  a  superhuman  inspiration.  In  the 
heart  of  the  heroic  Pastor  Arnaud,  and  many  oth- 
ers, it  was  strong  at  this  very  moment.  The  stran- 
gers were  allotted  settlements  in  several  places  in 
Switzerland  and  Germany,  but  Arnaud  had  whis- 
pered the  bold  design  to  some  hundreds,  who  there- 
fore declined  remote  invitations,  and  kept  together 
as  much  as  possible,  to  be  ready  for  the  coming 
hour.  There  was  no  visible  hope  of  it,  but  these 
men  had  as  much  faith  as  valor.  Could  the  cause 
of  their  Lord  Christ  suffer  any  final  defeat?  Why 
had  they  been  sustained,  fighting  successfully 
through  more  than  twelve  hundred  years  against 
the  attempted  invasions  of  Papal  corruption  and 
trained  armies?  Why  was  almost  every  valley, 
every  cave,  every  cliff,  of  their  country  consecrated 
with  martyr  blood?  Was  there  no  providential 
design  in  these  things?  Could  not  the  Lord  God 
of  hosts  raise  up  unknown  means  of  salvation  for 
them  ?     Had  not  a  great  man,  one  Oliver  Cromwell, 


1 8  Character-Sketches. 

the  greatest  sovereign  who  had  ever  ruled  England, 
made  France  and  Italy  tremble  when  he  threat- 
ened to  interpose  for  them  ?  Had  he  not  refused 
to  sign  a  treaty  with  France  till  the  alarmed  Ma- 
zarin  consented  to  join  his  intervention  ?  Had  not 
a  greater  man,  his  secretary,  one  John  Milton,  the 
greatest  poet  of  the  nations,  written  for  them,  and 
thrilled  Europe  with  his  indignant  words: 

'*  Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold,"  etc. 

And  was  there  not  a  man  of  power  rising,  in  the 
Protestant  north,  William  of  Orange,  the  enemy  of 
their  enemy,  and  one  who  could  aid  them  ?  But 
what  if  no  help  were  apparent  ?  Could  God's  "  al- 
mightiness,"  as  John  Milton  delighted  to  say, 
could  this  fail  ?  Had  he  not  rescued  their  valleys 
time  and  again  ?  Therefore  they  silently,  but 
bravely,  passed  the  word  along  their  new,  scattered 
settlements  :  *'  The  valleys  can  and  shall  be  rescued 
again.  We  can  march  into  them  under  the  Cap- 
tain of  our  salvation — and,  if  need  be,  under  Him 
alone."  They  found  in  Geneva  the  old  Vaudois 
hero,  Javenel,  who  had  done  many  a  brave  deed  in 
the  valleys.  He  was  too  aged,  and  too  disabled 
by  wounds,  to  return,  but  he  planned  their  cam- 
paign and  exhorted  them  to  adhere  to  it.  "  You 
will  be  told,"  he  said,  ''  that  all  France  and  Italy 
will    be    gathered    against    you.     But    were    it   the 


Arnaud,  *•  Pastor  and  Colonel."        19 

whole  world,  and  only  yourselves  against  all,  fear 
ye  the  Almighty  alone  ;  he  is  your  protection.' 

This  secret  must  be  sacredly  kept,  for  the  Prot- 
estant governments  that  had  given  them  shelter  had 
delicate  relations  with  France  and  Savoy,  which 
ought  not  to  be  compromised.  Three  faithful 
men  were  sent  to  spy  out  the  land  and  report  on 
the  route.  Arnaud  went  to  Holland,  consulted 
William  of  Orange,  and  obtained  funds  for  the  out- 
fit of  arms,  and  other  provisions.  Tw^ice  they 
started  on  their  march,  and  had  to  abandon  it  and 
return — their  own  Protestant  friends,  the  cantonal 
authorities,  interposing  and  warning  them  back. 
Arnaud,  though  of  undaunted  courage,  had  a  saga- 
cious eye,  and  saw  that  the  hour  had  not  yet  come; 
but  he  did  not  allow  them  to  disperse  a  second 
time  without  inspiriting  their  hope  by  a  sermon  at 
Bex  on  the  text,  *'  Fear  not,  little  flock  ;  for  it  is 
your  Father's  good  pleasure  to  give  you  the 
kingdom." 

They  now  waited  more  than  a  year,  to  allay  pub- 
lic suspicion,  before  resuming  the  attempt.  At 
last,  in  August,  1689,  they  secretly  assembled  in 
the  woods  back  of  Nyon,  on  the  northern  shore 
of  Lake  Leman,  and,  with  prayer  and  preaching 
from  Arnaud,  hastily  organized.  Between  eight 
and  nine  hundred  were  there.  The  secret  had 
been  well  kept,  but  the  neighboring  peasants  were 
wondering   at   the    strange  gathering,   and    reports 


20  Character-Sketches. 

would  immediately  reach  the  municipal  authori- 
ties. Curiosity  to  learn  what  was  going  on  in  the 
forest  attracted  some  fifteen  boats  to  the  neighbor- 
ing shore.  Arnaud  saw  his  opportunity.  After 
prayer,  at  the  head  of  the  little  army,  he  ordered 
the  boats  to  be  seized ;  their  owners  were  com- 
pelled to  row  them  across  the  lake  to  the  Savoy 
shore.  The  first  passage  was  successfully  made  by 
two  o'clock  on  the  night  of  August  16-17,  but  the 
boatmen,  fearing  for  their  lives  on  the  Catholic 
coast,  on  returning  for  the  remainder  escaped  up 
and  down  the  lake.  There  could  be  no  delay  for 
the  waiting  two  hundred  ;  the  transported  little  force, 
now  but  about  seven  hundred,  were  in  the  enemy's 
country.  They  were  arrayed  in  three  divisions 
— main  column,  vanguard,  and  rear  guard — com- 
prising nineteen  companies  under  select  captains. 
They  had  plenty  of  officers,  but  Arnaud  was  their 
leader.  They  were  near  Yvoire,  and  they  knew 
that  the  alarm  would  be  spread  by  daylight  through 
the  country.  They  must  pray  and  move  forward 
immediately.  One  of  their  three  pastors  went  in 
search  of  a  guide,  but  was  taken  prisoner  by  the 
authorities  and  sent  to  Chambery.  They  imme- 
diately summoned  Yvoire  to  surrender,  threatening 
to  burn  it  in  case  of  refusal ;  it  had  to  open  its  gates 
and  give  up  three  of  its  functionaries  as  hostages,  to 
be  taken  with  the  Vaudois  to  the  next  town,  and  to 
be  sent  back  only  when  they  could  be  substituted 


Arnaud,  "Pastor  and  Colonel."        2\ 

by  new  hostages — a  policy  which  was  maintained 
throughout  the  campaign. 

And  now  commenced  this  wondrous  march,  the 
Gloriaise  Rentn^c  —  compared  with  which  Xeno- 
phon's  Retreat  of  the  Ten  Thousand  was  an  insig- 
nificant feat.  The  Httle  army  had  no  commissariat, 
as  we  have  said,  each  man  carrying  his  own  provis- 
ion of  food  and  ammunition ;  they  had  no  animals 
— none  but  chamois  could  go  where  they  had  to  go  ; 
they  had  no  drums — even  these  would  have  been  an 
incumbrance ;  their  only  music  was  that  of  trump- 
ets and  psalms.  We  are  reminded  of  that  night 
when  the  Hebrews  began  their  march  for  the  Holy 
Land,  *'  that  night  of  the  Lord,  to  be  observed  of 
all  the  children  of  Israel  in  their  generations." 

They  moved  rapidly,  but  in  unbroken  order 
and  with  unshakable  resolution ;  their  determined 
bearing  struck  with  awe  the  hostile  populations 
through  which  they  advanced.  They  knew  that 
they  must  sometimes  use  desperate  expedients,  but 
they  hesitated  before  none  that  were  necessary ; 
they  must  seize  their  food  as  they  passed,  but  they 
scrupulously  paid  for  it  with  the  money  sent  from 
Holland.  They  could  take  no  prisoners,  save  hos- 
tages ;  for  how  could  they  feed  them  or  guard  them 
through  the  Alpine  passes?  and  prisoners  might 
soon  be  more  numerous  than  themselves.  They 
must  dispatch  them  on  the  spot,  and  give  no  quar- 
ter in  battle.     Their  whole  route  lay  through  the 


22  Character-Sketches. 

territory  of  the  Catholic  government  which  had  at- 
tempted their  extermination  ;  woe  to  any  man  who 
challenged  them  !  Few  words,  decisive  acts,  were 
the  only  ones  possible  in  the  emergency.  A  desper- 
ate Puritanic  rigor  was  their  only  policy,  and  it  was 
grimly  expressed  in  all  their  features  and  bearing. 
The  Catholic  populations  could  not  mistake  them, 
and  recoiled,  or  obsequiously  supplied  their  needs. 
Even  the  priests  sometimes  laid  down  their  stores 
before  them,  and  bade  them  go  on  ''  in  the  name 
of  God."  From  town  to  town  they  took  the  nobles 
of  the  castles,  the  priests,  or  the  leading  citizens,  as 
hostages  ;  it  was  submission  or  death  ;  the  first  alter- 
native was  always  chosen,  for  there  could  not  be  a  mo- 
mentary doubt  of  the  determined  earnestness  of  the 
Vaudois..  They  sometimes  had  forty  or  more  hos- 
tages, and  had  no  little  trouble  with  the  cures  and  fat 
friars,  who  puffed  and  halted  in  their  difficult  mount- 
ain climbings.  On  the  first  day  of  the  march  four 
"gentlemen,"  or  Savoyard  knights,  *' on  horse- back, 
well  armed  and  followed  by  peasants,"  confronted 
them,  demanded  wherefore  they  advanced  in  this 
array,  and  proudly  commanded  them  to  lay  down 
their  arms.  There  was  but  one  reply :  "  Down 
from  your  steeds  and  march  with  us,  our  hostages!  *' 
Mounting  a  hill  they  saw  two  hundred  armed  peas- 
ants awaiting  them,  commanded  by  a  Savoyard 
nobleman.  They  dispersed  them  at  a  blow,  broke 
to   pieces  their  arms,  and  took  some  of  them   as 


Arnaud,  '*  Tastor  and  Colonkl."        23 

guides,  "  with  the  menace,"  says  Arnaud,  "  of  be- 
in<^  luing  to  the  first  tree  if  they  should  be  found 
unfaithful."  Their  commanders  wrote  to  munici- 
palities beyond  that  the  Vaudois  were  honest,  pay- 
ing for  all  they  took,  demanding  only  a  passage. 
They  prayed  their  fellow-citizens  not  to  sound  the 
tocsin,  and  not  to  appear  in  arms.  Accordingly, 
during  this  day  the  people  on  the  way  met  them 
w  ith  provisions.  They  halted  at  Viu,  where  they 
were  treated  with  bread  and  wine,  and  then  re- 
sumed their  march  in  the  moonlight.  At  St.  Jayre 
the  frightened  magistrates  had  rolled  out  a  hogs- 
head of  wine  for  them  into  the  street,  but  ''  some 
drank  not,  fearing  it  was  poisoned."  They  marched 
on  till  midnight,  when  they  sent  back  their  first 
hostages,  and,  taking  a  brief  sleep  on  the  ground, 
after  prayer,  were  early  again  on  their  way ;  for  it 
was  necessary  to  hasten ;  all  the  country  was  now 
in  alarm,  and  the  French  and  Italian  troops  were 
in  motion  to  intercept  them.  They  reach  the 
town  of  Cluse,  in  the  valley  of  Arve.  Mont  Blanc 
towers  sublimely  above  them.  The  town  is  walled, 
and  the  people  hostile ;  the  municipal  authorities 
threaten  them,  and  bar  the  gates ;  "  but  it  is  nec- 
essary," says  Arnaud,  "to  traverse  this  town."  The 
inhabitants,  under  arms,  line  the  fosses,  and  the 
peasants  are  descending  the  surrounding  mount- 
ains with  resounding  shouts.  There  is  but  a  prompt 
word   from  the  Vaudois ;    they  must  pass,  if  they 


24  Character-Sketches. 

have  to  break  down  the  walls,  and  go  by  fire  and 
sword.  Their  remaining  hostages,  fearing  for  their 
own  lives,  write  to  the  municipality  to  save  them; 
the  gates  open,  and  the  little  troop  marches  in 
triumph  through  lines  of  awe-struck  citizens  under 
arms  on  either  side  of  the  street.  Beyond  the 
town  bread  and  wine  are  sent  to  them  ;  the  Vau- 
dois  send  back  money  in  payment.  The  leading 
citizens,  admiring  their  chivalry,  or  glad  for  their 
own  escape,  send  a  polite  invitation  to  the  officers 
to  return  and  dine  with  them ;  but  there  is  no  time 
for  such  courtesies.  They  forcibly  take  new  hos- 
tages, and  march  on  for  Salanches.  They  defile 
through  a  narrow  valley,  inaccessible  mountains  on 
one  side,  the  Arve,  swollen  by  rains  and  impassable, 
on  the  other.  *'  Stones  rolled  down  the  steeps 
could  have  wiped  out  an  army,"  writes  Arnaud. 
Here  they  face  a  town,  a  castle,  and  a  force  of 
armed  peasants,  but  the  latter  are  content  to  let 
them  pass  unmolested,  though  they  bear  off  the 
nobleman  of  the  chateau  and  his  priests  as  hostages. 
They  have  now  twenty  of  these  necessary  incum- 
brances— the  first  men  of  the  country  hitherto. 

As  they  approached  Salanches  they  heard  the 
tocsin  ringing ;  they  must  cross  a  bridge  to  reach 
the  town,  and  it  was  defended  by  armed  men. 
They  rushed  forward,  and  the  enemy  fled.  Once 
across,  the  Vaudois  formed  in  order  of  battle ;  for 
a  troop  of  six  hundred  were  before  them.     Terror 


Arnaud,  "  Pastor  and  Colonel/*        25 

(ell  upon  the  town  and  its  defenders.  Four  monks 
were  sent  to  parley  with  them,  and  offer  them  pas- 
sage and  two  hostages  if  they  would  release  the 
forty  now  with  them  and  hasten  away.  This  was 
all  the  Vaudois  wished ;  but  when  the  two  hos- 
tages appeared  they  were  found  to  be  poverty- 
stricken  townsmen,  deux  miserableSy  says  Arnaud. 
The  monks,  seeing  him  indignant,  attempted  to 
escape  ;  he  seized  two  of  them  and  "  enrolled  them 
in  the  company  of  hostages; "  and  "it  is  proper  to 
say,"  he  adds,  "  that  they  were  of  great  advantage 
to  us  afterward,  for  their  remonstrances,  prayers, 
and  intercessions  with  the  enemy  on  our  farther 
passage  were  so  efficacious  that  we  were  astonished 
at  the  power  of  these  good  fathers  over  their  co- 
religionists." Threatening  now  to  burn  the  town, 
they  were  allowed  to  pass  on  and  encamp  a  league 
beyond,  where  they  slept  under  a  drenching  rain, 
but  "  thanking  God,"  says  Arnaud,  "  that  the  storm 
probably  kept  the  enemy  from  rallying  "  in  pursuit 
of  them.  The  next  three  days  were  terrible  by  rea- 
son of  the  weather  and  the  steeps  they  had  to  climb. 
French  troops  awaited  them  in  the  valley  of  the 
Is^re,  and  they  must  evade  them  if  possible.  Pur- 
chasing ample  provision  from  the  peasants,  they 
resolutely  moved  on,  sometimes  passing  through 
villages  which  were  deserted  by  their  frightened 
inhabitants ;  at  others,  meeting  armed  populations 
which  fled  before  them.     The  rain  drenched  them  ; 


26  Character-Sketches. 

they  waded  through  "  snow  up  to  their  knees ;  " 
they  scaled  Lez  Pras  and  Haute  Luce  mountains, 
seven  thousand  feet  above  the  sea;  on  the  latter 
they  were  lost  in  the  clouds,  "  by  which  God  hid 
the  Vaudois  from  the  eye  of  their  enemies."  The 
**  good  and  holy  exhortations  of  Arnaud  animated 
the  courage  of  the  troops,'*  says  one  of  his  com- 
panions, '*  under  all  sorts  of  miseries  in  this  place, 
mounting  and  descending  on  steps  cut  in  the  rock, 
where  twenty  persons  could  have  overthrown  an 
army  of  twenty  thousand."  They  ascended,  or 
rather,  says  the  history,  **  crawled  up  the  Col  du 
Bonhomme,  knee  deep  in  snow,  the  rain  on  their 
backs,"  and,  standing  at  last  on  the  heights  of  the 
Alps,  beheld  the  valley  of  Isere,  in  which  the 
French  troops,  waiting,  were  prepared  for  them. 
Descending  to  it,  they  turned  into  the  valley  of 
Tignes,  and  thus  escaped  the  enemy.  Arriving  at 
the  base  of  Mont  Iseran,  they  thanked  God  and 
rested  a  few  hours,  Arnaud  having  had  no  sleep  for 
about  a  week.  Besides  all  the  horrors  of  the  weather 
and  the  mountains  which  they  passed  through  in 
these  days,  they  encountered  in  some  places  hostile 
peasant  forces ;  they  heard  the  tocsin,  *'  a  horrible 
clatter  of  all  the  steeples,"  says  Arnaud;  they  had 
to  break  over  barricaded  paths  guarded  by  armed 
mountaineers ;  they  broke  through  fortifications 
which  had  been  erected  in  anticipation  of  their 
former  advance  ;  these  were  now  deserted,  but  they 


Arnaud,  "Pastor  and  Colonel."        27 

were  so  situated  that  a  small  force  could  have  an- 
nihilated the  little  army — their  failure  the  year 
before  had  saved  them. 

The  next  day,  as  they  passed  over  Mont  Iseran, 
word  reached  them  that  troops  awaited  them  at  the 
foot  of  Mont  Cenis.  **  Instead  of  alarmin<j  us," 
says  Arnaud,  "  this  news  inflamed  our  hearts,  for, 
knowing  that  the  strength  of  our  arms  depended 
absolutely  on  God,  for  whose  glory  we  fought,  we 
doubted  not  that  he  could  open  our  way  against 
all  who  should  attempt  to  close  it."  They  ad- 
vanced to  Bci-is,  where  an  insolent  mob  defied 
them ;  they  seized  their  chatelain,  their  priest,  and 
six  of  the  people,  and,  scattering  the  rest,  went  on- 
ward. The  seventh  day  (Friday,  23d,)  they  ascend- 
ed Mont  Cenis ;  some  of  their  scouts  seized  the 
baggage  mules  of  the  Cardinal  Ranuzzi,  the  papal 
nuncio  in  France,  who  had  passed  on  another  route 
to  Rome  to  assist  at  the  election  of  a  Pope.  The 
spoils  were  rich,  but  all  were  given  back  to  the 
muleteers,  except  some  papers  which  exposed  the 
designs  of  the  French  king.  The  loss  of  these 
documents  defeated,  it  is  reported,  the  hope  of  the 
cardinal  for  the  papacy,  and  he  died  of  mortifica- 
tion, exclaiming,  "'  My  papers,  O  my  papers  .f^ 

The  little  army  traversed  the  Grande  and  the 
Petite  Cenis  through  appalling  sufferings — "  sur- 
passing the  imagination,"  says  Arnaud.  The  snow 
was  deep,  they  lost  their  way,  were  enveloped  with 


28  Character-Sketches. 

clouds.  They  were  overtaken  by  night ;  not  a  few- 
sank  down  exhausted  and  were  left  behind,  but 
rejoined  the  main  body  the  next  day  in  the  Valley 
of  the  Gaillon.  Again  climbing  the  steeps,  they 
could  see  the  mountain  outposts  of  their  native  val- 
leys. They  were  approaching  the  large  and  forti- 
fied towns.  Before  them  stood  Exilles;  to  their  left 
Susa.  The  struggle  onward  had  been  terrible  thus 
far,  but  now  came  the  severest  tug  of  war.  Twen- 
ty-two thousand  French  and  Italian  trained  troops 
were  before  them,  and  the  seven  hundred  must 
soon  encounter  their  outposts.  Lut  the  heroic 
band  advanced,  says  Arnaud,  "with  ntrepid  cour- 
age." They  attempted  to  evade  the  garrison  of 
Exilles  through  a  lateral  ravine,  but  the  French 
troops  and  peasants  fired  from  the  steeps  upon 
them,  and  rolled  down  rocks ;  the  way  became  im- 
passable; they  lost  several  men,  were  forced  to  retire, 
and  attempted  to  turn,  in  another  direction,  the 
heights  occupied  by  the  enemy.  They  soon  heard 
drums,  and  saw  the  garrison  marching  to  intercept 
them.  Descending  the  valley  of  the  Doire,  they 
saw  before  them,  on  and  beyond  a  bridge,  nearly 
four  times  their  own  number,  twenty-five  hundred 
troops,  with  all  the  provisions  of  war.  What  was 
now  to  be  done?  They  must  pass  through  this 
force  or  go  back.  The  night  was  falling;  could 
they  dare  to  rush  across  the  guarded  bridge,  and 
plunge  into  this  armed  host  in  the  darkness?    They 


Arnaud,  "  Pastor  and  Colonel."        29 

counseled  and  prayed  together.  Forward  was  the 
final,  the  only,  word.  They  advanced  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  encountered  a  formidable  body  of  French 
at  the  bridge,  under  the  command  of  Colonel  de 
Larrey.  They  heeded  not  a  shout  from  the  enemy 
to  halt;  they  received  a  volley,  and  three  fell;  but 
they  rushed  on  the  bridge,  sweeping  all  before 
them.  Arnaud's  sharp  eye  saw,  on  the  other  side, 
the  main  body  preparing  to  fire,  and  quickly  cried 
out,  **  Down  !  "  They  bowed,  and  the  volley  passed 
over  them.  "  Forward,  the  bridge  is  ours  !  "  cried 
one  of  his  captains,  and  the  Vaudois  leaped  to  their 
feet,  and  pressed  onward  under  the  fire  of  the  whole 
French  force.  They  threw  themselves  upon  it, 
broke  its  line,  and  prostrated  .it  every-where.  The 
day,  or  rather  the  night,  was  gloriously  won.  The 
whole  two  thousand  five  hundred  French  were 
dispersed  or  killed,  for  no  quarter  could  be  given 
them^ 

"  Is  it  possible,"  cried  their  commander,  a  French 
marquis,  "  that  I  have  lost  both  the  battle  and  my 
honor!"  He  escaped  wounded,  and  was  carried 
to  Briangon.  Seven  hundred  of  the  enemy  lay 
dead  on  the  earth  when  the  moon,  breaking  through 
the  night,  enabled  the  victors  to  survey  the  field — 
one  for  every  man  of  their  own  force.  The  latter 
had  lost  but  fifteen  killed  and  twelve  wounded. 
Valor  and  impetuosity  had  made  up  for  their  lack  of 
numbers.     They  had  taken  the  camp  of  the  enemy. 


30  Character-Sketches. 

and  were  thus  supplied  abundantly  with  ammuni- 
tion and  other  provisions. 

And  now  occurred  a  memorable  scene.  The 
Greeks  erected  monumental  trophies  on  the  fields 
of  their  victories ;  these  mountaineers  cared  for 
no  such  commemorations ;  but  there,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  everlasting  hills,  in  the  moonlight, 
they  threw  up  a  trophy  befitting  the  occasion — a 
pyramid  of  all  the  baggage  and  arms  of  the  enemy, 
beyond  what  they  could  carry,  over  barrels  of 
powder ;  and  withdrawing,  after  touching  a  match, 
saw  the  heavens  illuminated  and  felt  the  earth 
tremble  under  an  explosion  which  sent  among  the 
heights  reverberations  such  as  the  Alps  probably 
never  echoed  before  nor  since.  It  was  heard,  says 
the  history,  even  in  the  city  of  Briangon,  in  France. 
As  the  echoes  rolled  along  the  mountain  peaks  the 
trumpets  sounded  ;  the  victors  '*  threw  their  hats 
toward  heaven,"  writes  Arnaud,  ''  and  made  the 
air  resound  with  the  shout,  '  Glory  be  to  the  God 
of  armies,  who  hath  given  us  the  victory  over  all 
our  enemies  ! '  " 

All  but  six  of  their  forty  hostages  escaped  in  the 
confusion  of  this  battle.  The  little  troop  needed 
rest,  for  during  three  days  they  had  marched  "  day 
and  night ; "  but  new  foes  might  arrive  at  any 
hour ;  they  employed,  therefore,  the  remainder  of 
"  this  glorious  night  to  climb,  by  the  favor  of  the 
moon,  the  mountain  of  Sci,"  and  penetrate  to  the 


Arnaud,  ''Pastor  and  Colonel."        31 

valley  of  Pragelas.     They  would   thus  be    in    the 
Vaudois  mountains. 

In  one  week  and  one  day  they  had  made  their 
way  through  a  hostile  country,  across  the  most 
difficult  mountain  passes,  amid  rains  and  snows, 
and  through  armed  enemies,  to  the  very  gates  of 
their  own  mountains.  On  the  ninth  day,  Sunday 
morning,  they  stood  far  up  on  the  heights,  looking 
down  upon  Fenestrelles.  Before  them  lay 'their 
ancient  homes,  their  consecrated  valleys,  now  occu- 
pied by  Papists  and  desecrated  by  more  than 
twenty  thousand  French  and  Italian  troops  wailing 
for  their  coming.  Arnaud  ordered  the  force  to  be 
gathered  around  him,  and  pointed  to  the  peaks  of 
their  beloved  mountains,  "  exhorting  them  to  thank 
God,  who,  after  they  had  passed  through  such  mi- 
raculous deliverances,  permitted  them  once  more 
to  see  their  old  homes."  He  then  offered  a  prayer 
"  which  animated  them  all  anew."  Forthwith  they 
marched  down  into  the  valley  of  Pragelas,  and  en- 
camped before  the  church.  Though  it  is  the  Sab- 
bath, there  is  no  mass  to-day  in  all  the  valley,  for 
the  "  priests,  thinking  only  of  their  own  safety,  had 
taken  to  flight."  They  march  on  toward  the  val- 
ley of  St.  Martin,  driving  before  them  some  of  the 
dragoons  of  the  enemy,  and  spend  the  night  on  the 
highest  settled  point  of  the  Col  du  Pis.  The  next 
morning  they  discover,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain, 
Italian  troops,  **  well  arrayed."     They   pause   that 


32  Character-Sketches. 

Arnaud  may  pray,  which  he  does  ''with  loud  voice 
and  great  devotion,"  and  then  they  move  in  three 
columns  on  the  enemy,  who  take  to  flight,  leaving 
all  their  baggage  to  the  Vaudois.  The  pass  was 
thus  opened  to  the  strongest  hold  in  all  their 
mountains,  the  "  famous  Balsille,"  a  natural  mount- 
ain fortification,  with  but  a  single  approach,  with 
three  almost  inaccessible  terraces,  with  caverns  cut 
into  its  rocky  sides,  the  old  asylums  of  the  perse- 
cuted mountaineers,  now  convenient  barracks  and 
magazines,  and  with  fountains  of  good  water. 
Hardly  had  they  reached  this  important  refuge 
when  they  perceived  a  company  of  ItaHan  troops 
appearing  in  another  part  of  the  valley  to  hold  the 
pass.  The  Vaudois  rushed  upon  them,  took  them, 
and,  after  a  council  of  war,  '*  exhorting  them  to 
pray  to  God,"  slew  them  all — a  half  hundred  men 
lacking  two.  It  was  a  grim,  an  atrocious  policy, 
but  the  enemy  had  necessitated  it  by  establishing  it. 
All  the  Vaudois  who  had  been  taken  prisoners  had 
been  immediately  hanged ;  no  rights  of  war  were 
allowed  them.  If  they  were  not  disposed  to  retali- 
ate they  nevertheless  had  no  means  of  guarding 
their  prisoners,  and  to  release  them  was  only  to  re- 
enforce  the  enemy. 

The  twelfth  day  is  entitled  in  the  history  the 
"  Day  of  Consolation,"  for  they  advanced  to  Pralis, 
and,  after  burning  a  new  Catholic  chapel,  took 
possession  of  one  of  their  own  old  churches,  and, 


Arnaud,  '•  Pastor  and  Colonel."        33 

divesting  it  of  its  Romish  paraphernalia,  worshiped 
there  again  the  God  of  their  fathers  for  the  first 
time  since  their  expulsion.  They  sung  the  Seventy- 
fourth  Psalm,  an  appropriate  war-song.  Arnaud 
stood  in  the  door-way,  addressing  them,  within  and 
without,  from  the  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-ninth 
Psalm  :  ''  Many  a  time  have  they  afflicted  me  from 
my  youth,  may  Israel  now  say:  many  a  time  have 
they  afflicted  me  from  my  youth  :  yet  they  have  not 
prevailed  against  me.  .  .  .  Let  them  all  be  con- 
founded and  turned  back  that  hate  Zion."  Arnaud 
writes,  "  It  was  remarkable  that  this  first  public 
worship  of  the  returned  Vaudois  was  in  the  temple 
served  by  Pastor  Leidet,  who,  three  years  before, 
was  hanged  for  the  faith  in  the  fort  of  St.  Michael.'* 
The  whole  force  chanted  the  psalm,  upon  which, 
also,  Arnaud  preached.  The  service  ended,  all  pre- 
pared to  march  onward. 

The  next  day,  August  29,  after  prayer,  they  ad- 
vanced for  the  valley  of  Luzerne,  and  had  to  pass 
over  the  Col  du  Julier.  They  captured  on  the 
way  the  Marquis  de  Parelle,  an  important  officer  of 
the  enemy.  All  the  country  was  now  swarming 
with  hostile  troops.  They  soon  met  their  vanguard, 
who  shouted  to  them,  "  Come  on,  come  on,  ye  bar- 
bets  of  the  devil ;  we  have  seized  all  the  forts,  and 
are  more  than  thirty  thousand."  But  the  Vaudois 
drove  them  back,  charged  on  the  fortified  position 

of  their  main  force,  and  in  half  an  hour  dispersed 
3 


34  Character-Sketches. 

tliem  all,  taking  their  camp,  baggage,  and  am- 
munition, even  to  the  *'  rich  habits  "  of  their  com- 
manders, and  losing  but  one  of  their  own  heroes, 
whose  name  the  historian  deems  worthy  to  be  re- 
corded :  Joshua  Mandan,  a  "  valiant  man,"  whom 
they  buried  with  honors  "  under  a  rock."  The 
victors  pursued  the  flying  foe  as  far  as  the  "  Pas- 
sarelles  de  Julier,"  and  took  and  slew  thirty-one 
of  them.  They  found,  also,  the  horse  of  the  com- 
mander, with  his  pistols  yet  on  the  saddle  ;  the  over- 
throw was  complete.  The  pursuit  was  continued 
through  the  next  day,  driving  the  enemy  out  of  Bobi, 
where  the  heroes  took  possession  of  their  ancient 
homes,  and  expelled  the  Catholic  intruders  who  had 
occupied  them  for  some  three  years.  "  Thus,"  says 
Smiles,  their  English  historian,  '*  thus,  after  a  lapse 
of  only  fourteen  days,  this  little  band  of  heroes 
had  marched  from  the  shores  of  the  Lake  of  Ge- 
neva, by  difficult  mountain  passes,  through  bands  of 
hostile  troops,  which  they  had  defeated  in  two 
severe  fights,  and  at  length  reached  the  very  cen- 
ter of  the  Vaudois  valleys,  and  entered  into  pos- 
session of  the  promised  land." 

Here  they  paused  for  an  impressive  solemnity. 
The  next  day  was  Sunday,  Sept.  I  ;  a  pulpit  was 
extemporized  on  the  rocks,  and  one  of  the  pastors, 
Montaux,  mounting  it,  preached  from  Luke  xvi,  i6. 
Arnaud  then  proclaimed  '*  with  a  loud  voice  "  an 
oath,  to  which   all   responded,  "  lifting  their  hands 


Arnaud,  "Pastor  and  Colonel."        35 

to  God,"  and  swearing  "  before  the  face  of  the 
hving  God  and  at  the  damnation  of  our  souls  "  not 
to  succumb,  **  even  if  reduced  to  three  or  four 
men,"  but  to  persist  in  ''  re-estabhshing  the  reign 
of  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  even  unto 
death."  They  stood  on  the  hill  of  Silaoud,  and  the 
surrounding  mountains  —  the  witnesses,  through 
centuries,  of  the  persecutions  of  their  fathers— re- 
verberated their  chant  of  the  Seventy-fourth  Psalm, 
**  sung  to  the  clash  of  arms." 

Meanwhile  they  knew  that  their  hardest  trials  were 
yet  before  them.  The  enemy  was  pressing  in  upon 
them  from  all  sides.  It  would  not  do  for  them  to 
shut  themselves  up  yet  in  any  stronghold  ;  not 
even  in  the  nearly  impregnable  Balsille,  for  they 
could  be  starved  out.  They  must  march  and  fight 
through  all  the  country;  either  they  or  the  mul- 
titudinous enemy  must  apparently  be  utterly  over- 
thrown before  the  unparalleled  struggle  could  end. 
The  latter  was  the  only  alternative  they  thought  of 
amid  the  tremendous  odds.  The  combined  armies 
of  France  and  Italy  were  not  only  more  than  twenty 
thousand  strong,  but  the  Catholic  peasants  were 
impressed  into  their  service.  The  little  force  must 
fight  back  nearly  thirty-five  times  their  own  num- 
ber. Their  only  commissariat  must  be  foragings  on 
the  herds  and  stores  of  the  Catholic  usurpers  of  their 
old  lands.  They  must  fight  the  enemy  with  the 
enemy's  own  ammunition,  won  by  incessant  assaults. 


^6  Character-Sketches. 

Never  did  heroes  confront  worse  odds  than  those  now 
before  them.  The  narrator  may  well  wax  dithy- 
rambic  over  such  a  story.  But  how  can  we  go  on 
with  it  in  our  restricted  limits  ?  We  have  been 
gleaning,  thus  far,  only  salient  facts  from  a  hundred 
and  fifty  pages  of  Arnaud,  the  pastor-colonel  ; 
more  than  two  hundred  of  his  most  thrilling  pages 
remain ;  but  we  have  followed  the  gallant  little 
army  into  the  very  heart  of  their  old  mountain 
homes  ;  we  can  only  summarize  the  remaining  and 
the  bravest  part  of  their  campaign. 

They  had  struggled  through  half  a  month ;  they 
were  to  struggle  on  through  nearly  ten  months 
more.  "  The  war  now  became,"  says  Smiles,  ''  one 
of  reprisals  and  mutual  devastations,  the  two  par- 
ties seeking  to  deprive  each  other  of  shelter  and 
the  means  of  subsistence.  Armies  concentrated 
on  the  Vaudois  from  all  points.  They  were  pressed 
by  the  French  on  the  north  and  west,  by  the  Pied- 
montese  on  the  south  and  east,  furnished  with  all 
the  munitions  of  war."  They  fight  from  valley  to 
valley,  from  cliff  to  cliff,  "  now  in  one  place,  and 
perhaps  the  next  day,  some  twenty  miles  across  the 
mountains,  in  another,  with  almost  invariable  suc- 
cess. It  seems  little  short  of  miraculous/'  They 
divide  their  small  force  to  carry  on  the  struggle  in 
separate  valleys,  sometimes  without  knowing  each 
other's  fate  for  weeks  together.  Their  clothing 
has    become    rags;     they   often    scale    heights   on 


Arnaud,  "Pastor  and  Colonel."       37 

their  hands  and  feet;  they  are  sometimes  famish- 
ing by  lack  of  provisions.  They  take  many  prison- 
ers who  have  to  die  ;  but  one  of  them  they  dis- 
cover to  be  a  surgeon  :  him  they  spare,  providen- 
tially for  him  and  themselves;  they  retain  him  for 
their  own  wounded,  and  he  serves  them  well,  for  he 
knows  that  instant  death  would  be  the  consequence 
of  any  unfaithfulness.  At  another  time,  while  Ar- 
naud is  praying,  the  sentinels  see  the  enemy  mov- 
ing to  secure  a  necessary  post  on  the  mountain  of 
Vach^re  ;  the  pastor  abridges  his  prayer  and  sends 
a  detachment,  "  who  made  such  diligence  and  bore 
themselves  so  well  that  they  gained  the  post  in  the 
face  of  the  enemy,  slaying  a  hundred  of  them  with- 
out losing  a  man."  At  one  time  their  leader,  Ar- 
naud, is  separated  from  them  and  seems  lost,  but 
"  after  praying  three  times  with  six  soldiers  who 
remain  with  him,  he  is  able  to  rejoin  the  band  on 
the  mountain  of  Vendalin."  His  fellow-pastor, 
Montaux,  is  not  so  fortunate  ;  he  is  captured  and 
sent  to  prison  in  Turin,  where  he  languished  till 
the  end  of  the  war. 

A  sadder  trial  came  upon  them  ;  most  of  the 
French  Vaudois  gave  up  in  despair,  and  retired 
with  Turrel,  their  chief,  down  into  France.  Turrel 
had  been  the  nominal  head  of  the  army,  though 
Arnaud  was  its  real  leader,  its  Leonidas.  The  re- 
treating band  were  nearly  all  captured  by  the  ene- 
my, and  killed  or  sent  to  the  galleys,  where  they 


38  Character-Sketches. 

and  their  leader  perished.  Smiles  can  almost  apol- 
ogize for  them.  "  Flesh  and  blood,"  he  says,  "  could 
not  endure  such  toil  and  privations  much  longer. 
No  wonder  that  the  faint-hearted  began  to  de- 
spair." But  the  Italian  Vaudois  knew  no  despair. 
Arnaud  prayed  and  preached  on,  and  their  dimin- 
ished numbers  fought  on  and  conquered  almost 
from  day  to  day. 

Winter  was  at  hand,  and  they  must  provide  for  it. 
They  cut  their  way  through  the  enemy,  toward 
their  ancient  stronghold  of  the  Balsille.  They 
never  could  have  reached  it  again  had  it  not  been 
for  their  knowledge  of  the  mountain  passes,  and 
their  ability  to  climb  ;  the  enemy  was  waiting  for 
then  in  all  the  surrounding  valleys,  but  they  scaled 
the  intervening  heights  by  night,  and  stood  in  the 
dawn  on  the  Balsille,  above  all  the  hostile  hosts. 

Here  they  immediately  laid  in  provisions  by 
foraging  on  the  neighboring  farms,  and  prepared 
for  the  winter  and  for  their  fiercest  struggle.  They 
made  stronger  every  point  of  their  naturally  strong 
position  by  barricades  and  intrenchments  one  above 
the  other.  The  winter  begins  early  in  these  mount- 
ains, and  lasts  long;  it  was  now  November;  ar- 
mies operate  with  difficulty  at  any  time  in  the 
valleys ;  it  was  now  next  to  impossible ;  but  the 
honor  of  two  great  sovereigns  was  concerned  in  the 
desperate  struggle ;  among  their  troops  were  regi- 
ments who  had  won  distinction  on  historic  fields ; 


Arxaud,  *•  Pastor  and  Colonel."        39 

they  were  led  by  eminent  officers,  who  were  morti- 
fied by  the  superior  valor  and  success  of  these 
*'  devil's  barbets ;  "  and,  above  all,  the  faith  was  dis- 
honored. It  would  not;do  to  give  up,  and  the  con- 
test went  on  more  or  less  amid  the  incessant  hor- 
rors of  an  Alpine  winter.  "  Through  six  months 
the  Vaudois  beat  back  every  force  that  was  sent 
against  them."  Arnaud  "  preached  twice,"  says 
the  history,  "  every  Sunday,  and  once  every  Thurs- 
day, and  prayed  with  them  every  morning  and 
evening,  very  seriously,  all  kneeling  with  their  faces 
on  the  earth."  **  They  had  an  unshakable  resolu- 
tion to  await  with  firm  foot  the  enemy,  and  to  no 
more  fatigue  themselves  in  wandering  from  mount- 
ain to  mountain,  as  they  had  done."  The  repeated 
assaults  of  the  enemy  failing,  the  latter  had  to  retire 
to  Maneille  and  Perier  for  a  season,  confounded  and 
profoundly  chagrined.  They  burned  all  the  houses 
and  barns  around,  to  deprive  the  Vaudois  of  pro- 
visions, and  cried  in  departing,  **  You  shall  see  us 
again  at  Easter."  The  Vaudois,  now  only  four 
hundred,  by  the  absence  of  some  of  their  brethren 
in  a  distant  valley,  "commenced  to  respire  again." 
*'  They  could  say  with  reason,"  adds  Arnaud,  "  that 
the  eternal  God  had  declared  himself  for  them." 

Meanwhile  favorable  overtures  are  made  to  them, 
but  they  know  too  well  the  treachery  of  the  enemy 
to  accept  them.  They  send  out  frequent  detach- 
ments for  forage :  they  slay  the  enemy  at  his  out- 


40  Character-Sketches. 

posts  and  burn  his  outer  barracks.  At  last,  on 
April  30,  1690,  while  Arnaud  is  preaching,  the  foe 
is  seen  thronging  up  the  valley  and  on  all  the 
neighboring  summits.  Tliek  position  was  entirely 
surrounded.  The  struggle  was  recommenced  ''  un- 
der the  direction  of  General  Catinat  in  person." 
*'The  enemy,"  says  Arnaud,  *' to  the  number  of 
twenty-two  thousand,  (ten  thousand  French,  and 
twelve  thousand  Italians,)  sent  a  detachment  of 
five  hundred  men,  selected  by  Catinat  to  open  the 
attack.  On  May  2  they  reached  the  first  bastion, 
which  had  been  covered  with  prostrate  trees.  They 
supposed  that  they  had  only  to  draw  away  the 
trees  and  their  way  would  be  clear,  but  they  found 
them  made  sure  by  heavy  stones.  **  Then  com- 
menced so  grand  a  fire  from  the  Vaudois  that  they 
prostrated  the  assailants  to  the  earth.  It  was  a 
thing  surprising,  the  hail-storm  of  balls  which  filled 
the  air;  the  younger  Vaudois  recharged  the  arms 
while  the  older  fired,  insomuch  that  there  was  a 
continual  fire,  abyssing  the  enemy,  '  while  a  snow- 
storm played  upon  them.* " 

At  last  the  Vaudois  made  a  sortie,  and  slew  the 
whole  assaulting  column  except  ten  or  twelve,  who 
escaped  without  hats  or  arms  to  report  their  defeat 
to  the  mortified  Catinat.  ''  We  must  sleep  in  these 
barracks  to-night,"  had  said,  in  the  morning,  their 
commander.  Colonel  de  Parat ;  he  was  now  wounded 
and   taken    prisoner,   and,   after   being   kept   some 


Arxaud,  "Pastor  and  Colonel."        41 

time  in  the  Balsillc,  was  put  to  death.  The  enemy 
lost  a  colonel,  a  lieutenant-colonel,  and  other  officers 
— twenty  in  all.  Not  a  single  Vaudois  was  killed 
or  wounded  on  this  "  bloody  day,"  as  Arnaud  calls 
it.  *•  The  French  retreated  in  astonishment  to 
Macer;  the  Piedmontese,  who  had  been  spectators 
of  the  bravery  of  the  Vaudois,  holding  their  only 
way  of  escape,  retired  to  Champ  la  Salse."  Arnaud 
preached  after  the  victory,  the  tears  flowing  from 
his  eyes,  and  his  flock  weeping  around  him. 

General  Catinat  was  not  willing  to  risk  his  honor 
by  risking  another  defeat ;  he  was  hoping  for  the 
marshal's  baton,  and  it  evidently  could  never  be 
earned  here ;  he  committed  the  desperate  work  to 
the  Marquis  de  Fenguieres,  who  determined  on 
thorough  measures,  and  was  saluted  beforehand  as 
"the  conqueror  of  the  barbets."  By  May  12  the 
position  of  the  Vaudois  was  again  surrounded  ;  the 
neighboring  mountains  were  planted  with  artillery 
completely  commanding  it,  and  threatening  to  bat- 
ter it  to  fragments ;  all  the  outletting  valleys  were 
occupied.  Five  corps  of  disciplined  troops  bore 
down  upon  it,  each  man  preceded  by  a  pioneer, 
who  bore  for  him  a  protection  against  the  fire  of 
the  Vaudois. 

The  day  of  consummate  trial  for  the  little  corps 
had  now  come,  and  they  could  fully  appreciate  it ; 
but  they  swerved  not ;  God  had  been  with  them, 
would  he  now  desert  them?     They  could  see  no 


42  Character-Sketches. 

way  of  escape ;  but  had  it  not  seemed  that  the  an- 
gels of  heaven  had  protected  them,  that  the  very 
stars  had  fought  for  them  in  their  courses,  and 
could  they  not  still  expect  miraculous  deliverance  ? 
A  French  writer,  in  contemplating  their  condition, 
says,  "  We  know  not  in  all  history  a  more  striking- 
illustration  of  the  phrase,  *  Nothing  is  impossible  to 
iiim  that  believeth.'  Faith  transformed  them  into 
heroes,  and  rendered  them  invincible."  Each  man 
knew  that  defeat  now  meant  death  for  each.  Yet 
no  man  spoke  of  capitulation.  The  Marquis  de 
Fengui^res,  having  arranged  all  his  positions  for  an 
overwhelming  attack,  again  sent  overtures  to  them. 

"  What  is  your  demand  ?  "  asked  the  Vaudois  of 
the  messenger. 

"  That  you  surrender  at  once,"  was  the  reply ; 
"  if  you  do  so,  you  shall  be  accorded  passports  to  a 
foreign  country,  and  five  hundred  louis  (Tor  each  ; 
if  you  do  not  you  must  all  perish." 

"That  shall  be  as  the  Lord  will,"  was  their 
answer. 

The  commander  wrote  to  Arnaud  again,  offering 
favorable  terms,  but  declaring  that  if  they  were  de- 
clined every  man  taken  alive  should  be  hanged. 
Arnaud  wrote  back :  **  We  are  not  under  your 
French  king;  he  is  not  master  of  this  country;  we 
can  make  no  treaty  with  your  messieurs ;  we  are  in 
the  heritage  that  our  fathers  have  possessed  in  all 
times,  and  we  shall,  by  the  help  of  the  Lord  God    ^ 


Arnaud,  "  Pastor  and  Colonel.**        43 

of  armies,  live  and  die  here,  should  there  remain 
only  ten  men  of  us.  If  your  cannon  fire,  our  rocks 
will  not  be  frightened,  and  we  know  how  to  return 
your  fire."  That  very  night  the  Vaudois  made  a 
sortie,  slaying  a  number  of  the  enemy.  The  mar- 
quis ordered  his  guns  to  be  pointed  from  Mont 
Guigneverte,  his  most  formidable  position,  and 
hung  out  a  white  flag,  and  soon  after  a  red  one,  to 
signify  that  there  would  be  no  hope  after  he  began 
to  fire. 

Finally,  on  May  14,  the  guns  began  to  play  de- 
structively upon  the  Vaudois'  position  ;  it  had  been 
gallantly  held  for  nearly  seven  months,  but  the 
rocky  defenses  were  now  crumbling  under  power- 
ful artillery.  The  assailing  columns  attacked  the 
Vaudois  at  three  points,  "  pouring  upon  us,"  says 
Arnaud,  "  an  incessant  hail-storm,  so  thick  that, 
after  a  hundred  thousand  shot,  we  had  to  abandon 
our  lowest  terrace."  It  w^as  no  longer  tenable,  but 
they  ascended  to  a  higher  one  under  protection  of 
a  thick  mist,  which  saved  them  from  the  fire  of  a 
redoubt,  which  might  have  swept  them  to  destruc- 
tion. They  fought  on  till  nightfall,  but  it  Was  now 
seen  that  the  stronghold  would  be  battered  into 
ruins  and  overwhelmed  ;  they  must  escape  or  be 
lost.  How  to  escape  was  the  question.  They  were 
encompassed  by  tens  of  thousands  of  troops  and 
hostile  peasants ;  all  known  passes  were  occupied 
by  the  enemy ;  if  seen  the  next  day  attempting  to 


44  Character-Sketches. 

escape  their  little  troop  could  be  instantly  annihi- 
lated. 

"  The  night  fires  of  the  enemy,"  writes  Arnaud, 
"  were  blazing  all  around ;  the  obstacles  seemed 
invincible.  In  fine,  we  saw  that  the  hand  of  God 
could  alone  deliver  us.  Committing  ourselves  to 
him,  we  learned  very  soon  that  he  who  had  rescued 
us  from  so  many  dangers  had  now  led  us  into  this 
extremity  only  the  better  to  show  in  what  manner 
he  could  save  us."  One  of  their  number  was  a 
native  of  this  very  region  ;  he  reported  to  them 
that  he  knew  a  solitary,  though  extremely  perilous, 
path  through  which  he  might  be  able  to  guide  them. 
The  enemy's  watch-fires  enabled  him  to  see  from 
the  Balsille  that  no  other  outlet  remained  for  them. 
"  It  was  along  a  frightful  precipice,"  says  the  his- 
tory. But  how  were  they  to  get  out  of  the  Bal- 
sille and  reach  it  under  the  universal  fire  which 
they  might  expect  from  the  enemy?  "  Precisely," 
says  Arnaud,  "  at  the  moment  which  seemed  fatal 
with  a  cruel,  an  appalling  death,  a  thick  mist  (such 
is  common  in  these  mountains)  fell  upon  them," 
and  rendered  their  movements  invisible  to  the 
enemy.  They  marched  silently  out  of  the  Balsille, 
under  their  mountain  guide,  Captain  Paulat — ''  un- 
der the  protection  of  heaven,"  continues  Arnaud, 
"  and  the  guidance  of  this  brave  captain."  Stealthily 
they  crept  along  the  precipice  of  the  ravine,  *'  on 
hands  and  knees,  holding  to  shrubs  for  momentary 


Arnaud,  "Pastor  and  Colonel."        45 

rest  and  for  taking  breath  ;  those  in  front  careful- 
ly feeling  the  way  with  feet  and  hands  to  be  sure 
of  safe  footing."  Paulat  ordered  them  to  take 
off  their  shoes,  lest  the  enemy's  outposts  should 
hear  them,  for  they  had  to  pass  close  by  some  of 
these.  A  slight  noise  actually  brought  back  the 
challenge  of  a  sentinel,  "Who  goes  there?"  It 
was  a  critical  moment  for  them  ;  they  maintained 
breathless  silence,  and  the  sentinel,  hearing  no 
reply,  supposed  he  had  deceived  himself,  and  did 
not  repeat  his  qui  vive.  They  pressed  forward, 
scaling  a  part  of  the  Guigneverte,  and  drawing 
toward  Salse — the  friendly  mist  still  covering  them 
until  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  they  were 
out  of  danger.  They  had  encountered  an  outpost 
of  the  enemy  on  a  slope  of  the  Guigneverte,  but 
the  alarmed  soldiers  fled  in  all  haste  to  their  main 
force ;  for  no  one  knew  what  to  make  of  them,  all 
supposing  the  Vaudois  to  be  hermetically  sealed 
up  and  doomed  in  the  Balsille.  Unutterable  was 
the  mortification  of  the  French  when,  at  the  rising 
of  the  mist,  they  approached  the  Balsille  to  take  it, 
and  found  that  their  expected  prey  had  all  escaped. 
*'  Looking,"  says  Smiles,  **  across  the  valley,  far  off, 
they  saw  the  fugitives  thrown  into  relief  by  the 
snow,  amid  which  they  marched  like  ants,  appar- 
ently making  for  the  mass  of  central  Alps."  The 
enemy  had  written  to  the  city  of  Pignerol  that 
they  might  lodk  there  for  the  Vaudois  as  prisoners 


46  Character-Sketches. 

to  be  hanged  the  next  day :  the  expectant  people 
saw  arrive  instead  only  wagons  loaded  with  wounded 
and  dying. 

This  was  the  grand  crisis — the  climax — of  the 
Gloriciise  Rentree.  After  many  fights  in  most  of  the 
valleys,  after  repeatedly  hurling  back  the  combined 
forces  of  Italy  and  France  from  the  Balsille,  through 
long  months,  they  still  stood  triumphant  on  their 
mountain  heights. 

No  man  of  them  could  now  doubt  that  the  God 
of  armies  w^as  leading  them,  and  would  lead  them, 
however  mysteriously,  to  a  successful  issue.  And 
yet  they  could  discern  no  signs  of  that  issue.  Their 
country  was  still  thronged  with  armed  enemies. 
They  themselves  were  but  a  handful — though  ap- 
parently invincible.  What  next  ?  was  the  anxious 
question.  But  that  belonged  to  the  responsibility  of 
their  divine  Commander.  They  must  leave  it  to 
Him  ;  w^hat  they  had  to  do  was  still  to  pray,  march, 
and  defend  themselves.  They  go  on,  mounting  pre- 
cipices by  steps  which  they  cut  in  the  hard  snow. 
On  the  summit  of  Mont  Galmon  they  pause  for 
rest,  review  their  forces,  and,  sending  their  sick 
and  wounded  under  care  of  the  surgeon  to  a  secret 
shelter,  descend  hastily  into  concealment  in  the 
woods  of  Serrelemi  to  aw^ait  the  night.  Another 
thick  mist  providentially  covering  them,  they  re- 
sume their  march,  and  attain  a  height  where  they 
expected    to   find   water  with  whidi   to  boil   their 


Arnaud,  '*  Pastor  and  Colonel.'  47 

food,  for  they  have  fasted  long ;  but  none  is  there. 
"Heaven,"  says  Arnaud,  "seeing  our  need,  com- 
passionately sent  us  rain."  The  next  day,  having 
early  extinguished  their  fires,  that  the  enemy  might 
not  discover  them,  they  advance  to  Prajet,  where 
they  conceal  themselves  in  deserted  barns  for  rest, 
but  without  daring  to  make  fires;  there,  after 
prayer  by  Arnaud,  a  spy  is  sent  out  to  see  whether 
troops  are  near;  he  finds  them  at  Rodaret.  An- 
other fog  favoring  them,  they  hasten  forward  ;  at 
intervals,  when  it  breaks,  they  lie  extended  on  the 
earth  till  it  thickens  again,  and  thus  make  their 
way  to  Fayet  by  midnight,  having  "  suffered  in- 
credible pains,  creeping  along  dangerous  precipices, 
and  holding  on  to  bushes  to  prevent  falls  into  the 
abysses." 

They  after^vard  descended  into  the  village  of 
Riia,  where  they  found  the  enemy,  with  all  the  in- 
habitants, intrenched  in  the  church  cemetery.  Ar- 
naud led  an  attack  upon  them,  slaying  fifty-seven, 
taking  their  commander,  the  Sieurde  Vignaux,  with 
three  lieutenants  prisoners,  and  burning  down  the 
village.  The  Vaudois  supplied  themselves  here 
abundantly  with  cattle,  and  marched  on  to  the 
mountain  of  Angrogone.  There,  with  no  apparent 
end  to  their  perplexities  and  conflicts,  but  equally 
no  end  to  their  resolution,  astonishing  news  reached 
them.  The  God  in  whom  alone  they  trusted  had 
confounded  all  their  enemies.     The  two  sovereigns 


48  Character-Sketches. 

who  had  combined  to  exterminate  them,  given  up 
to  judicial  blindness,  had  quarreled,  and  had  de- 
clared war  against  each  other.  A  strange,  an  in- 
credible providence  it  at  first  seemed,  even  to  these 
praying  heroes,  whose  faith,  like  their  valor,  had 
hitherto*  seemed  superior  to  any  surprise.  Now 
messages  were  sent  from  each  hostile  party,  en- 
treating their  alliance  and  aid.  They  took  sides 
with  their  own  sovereign,  badly  as  he  had  treated 
them.  The  Italian  officers  were  soon  with  them, 
hearty  in  congratulations  and  friendship.  The  re- 
mainder of  their  fighting  was  side  by  side  with  their 
late  Italian  foes,  against  the  French,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  they  swept  the  latter  out  of  all  their 
mountains.  Arnaud  hastened  down  into  Italy,  to 
the  camp  of  his  sovereign,  where  he  was  received 
with  honors.  All  the  Vaudois  prisoners,  both  in 
the  mountains  and  below,  were  set  free  and  rejoined 
their  brethren  to  fight  the  French  ;  *'  and  our  joy 
was  redoubled,"  says  the  history,  "  when  one  of 
them  brought  word  that,  among  other  kind  things 
said  to  them  by  the  duke,  he  assured  them  that 
henceforth  they  might  preach  their  faith  every- 
where, even  in  his  capital  of  Turin."  ''  It  is  the 
work  of  God,"  exclaimed  Arnaud ;  *'  to  him  alone 
be  the  glory !  "  "  Eight  persons  out  of  every  ten 
who  hear  these  surprising  and  miraculous  things 
will  consider  them  as  fables  and  tales  of  the  old 
times,"  he  wrote  later.     It  was,  indeed,  the  work 


Arnaud,  *'  Pastor  and  Colonel."        49 

of  God ;  and,  if  any  thing  in  the  history  of  the  hu- 
man race  appears  miraculous,  this  certainly  does. 
But  God  works  by  means.  Arnaud  himself  was  the 
one  conspicuous  agent  of  this  unparalleled  military 
episode ;  his  own  character  gave  character  to  the 
whole  of  it  ;  his  faith  and  courage  were  invincible; 
his  heroism  made  every  man  under  him  a  hero;  if 
he  had  wavered  for  a  moment,  like  the  French  nom- 
inal commander  of  the  movement,  all  would,  prob- 
ably, have  been  lost.  The  whole  thrilling  story  is 
an  illustration  of  his  personal  character. 

A  remarkable  historic  coincidence  had  occurred 
during  the  campaign.  William  of  Orange,  the  friend 
of  these  heroes,  had  ascended  the  throne  of  England, 
and,  while  they  were  confounding  with  miracles  of 
faith  and  valor  the  troops  of  the  royal  author  of  the 
Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  in  these  mount- 
ain heights,  their  Huguenot  brethren,  refugees  from 
France,  led  by  Marshal  Schomberg,  himself  a  refu- 
gee, w^ere  fighting  for  William  in  Ireland  against 
the  attempt  of  Louis  XIV.  to  restore  the  Stuarts 
and  popery  in  England.  On  the  very  day  in  which 
Arnaud  stood  in  the  camp  of  his  reconciled  sov- 
ereign, the  representative  of  his  delivered  people, 
the  battle  of  the  Boyne  was  fought,  (July  i,)  and 
the  hopes  of  the  Stuart  dynasty  were  extinguished 
forever. 

On  July  5  Arnaud  was  in  the  capital,  Turin,  and 
wrote  to  a  friend  in  Switzerland:  **  His  royal  high- 


50  Character-Sketches. 

ness  gives  us  complete  liberty,  and  desires  only  the 
peace  of  the  country.  We  wish,  therefore,  all  our 
people  immediately  to  return.  Great  miracles  has 
God  wrought  for  us  in  the  last  ten  months.  None 
but  He  alone  knows,  or  ever  can  know,  the  struggles 
we  have  had,  the  horrible  combats ;  but  our  ene- 
mies have  failed  ;  when  they  supposed  we  were 
theirs,  the  great  God  of  armies  has  always  given 
us  the  victory.  We  have  not  lost  thirty  men  in 
these  battles ;  our  enemies  have  lost  about  ten 
thousand." 

Their  friends  and  most  of  the  outer  world  had 
known  little  or  nothing  of  their  fate  during  much 
of  the  time,  but  supposed  they  must  have  perished. 
One  of  them,  who  had  kept  a  journal  of  their  move- 
ments, had  been  captured  and  sent  to  prison  in 
Turin.  His  journal  was  secretly  conveyed  to  Swit- 
zerland, and  excited  such  enthusiasm  that  an  army 
of  a  thousand  Protestants,  ambitious  to  share  in 
their  heroic  deeds,  was  soon  moving  to  fight  its 
way  to  them  in  the  mountains ;  but  it  failed,  and 
was  not  needed. 

The  victorious  mountaineers  had  sustained  at 
least  eighteen  distinct  attacks.  But  three  hundred 
and  sixty-seven  of  them  held  the  Balsille  during 
the  eight  months'  siege,  ''  living  on  little  bread 
and  herbs,"  says  Arnaud,  *'  shut  in  by  ten  thou- 
sand French  and  twelve  thousand  Piedmontese," 
hurling  back  assault  after  assault,  and  at  last  escap- 


Arnaud,  "Pastor  and  Colonel."        51 

ing,  "  when  the  enemy  had  provided  executioners 
and  mules  loaded  with  cords  in  order  to  hang 
them." 

But  the  trial  was  over;  the  Glorieuse  Rcntrde  was 
accomplished.  The  "  Israel  of  the  Alps  "was  saved. 
The  Vaudois  families  returned  from  Switzerland, 
Germany,  Holland.  Their  temples  and  schools 
were  re-opened,  and  their  mountains  echoed  again 
their  ancient  hymns.  Their  own  sovereign,  suffer- 
ing, at  first,  reverses  in  his  war  below,  had  to  fly  to 
them  for  refuge,  and  was  loyally  protected  in  their 
valleys.  Their  Catholic  country  had  reason  to  be 
proud  of  them.  In  1848  a  petitio^i  was  signed  by 
Cavour,  Balbo,  d'Azeglio,  and  hosts  of  other  Italian 
patriots,  demanding  and  procuring  their  complete 
enfranchisement,  for  they  were  among  the  best  cit- 
izens and  best  soldiers  of  the  country.  With  the 
emancipation  and  unification  of  Italy  they  com- 
menced what  seems  to  be  their  great  destination 
and  mission,  the  design  of  their  unparalleled  his- 
tory— the  evangelization  of  the  peninsula.  They 
have  been  marching  down  from  their  mountains, 
planting  churches  and  schools  all  over  the  land, 
from  Piedmont  to  Sicily,  from  Genoa  to  Venice. 
They  have  chapels,  Sunday-schools,  week-day 
schools,  charity  schools,  hospitals,  a  printing-house, 
a  theological  seminary,  and  periodicals.  Palaces 
have  been  given  them  for  their  theological  school 
and   printing  operations,  and,  in   some  cases,  for 


52  Character-Sketches. 

chapels.  They  have  districted  the  whole  country 
into  five  sections,  that  of  Rome  and  Naples  com- 
prising eleven  stations.  They  are  the  most  legit- 
imate religious  reformers  of  Italy.  Their  remark- 
able story  affords  a  lesson  to  the  Church  in  all  the 
world  and  for  all  ages. 


MaCAULAV— LliLKAKV    LlFE.  53 


II. 

MACAULAY— LITERARY  LIFE. 

TAKE  him  all  in  all,  Lord  Macaulay  is  one 
of  the  best  examples  of  the  "  literary  life  " 
recorded  in  English  history.  As  critic,  **  conversa- 
tionist," historian,  orator,  and  even  as  poet — for  he 
was  characteristically  "  literary"  in  all— he  may  be 
taken  as  a  type,  a  very  impersonation,  of  that  elect 
life.  His  political  career  was  long  and  active 
enough  to  render  him  historical,  and  pre-eminent 
over  most  of  the  British  statesmen  of  his  day. 
But  his  literary  life  was  not  incidental  to  his  par- 
liamentary and  official  life.  The  latter  was  but 
exceptional  to  the  former — a  salutary  alternative, 
or  rather  alterative,  as  medical  men  would  say. 
Like  Addison,  whom,  above  all  English  writers  save 
Milton,  he  most  admired,  but  least  imitated  in 
other  respects,  he  was  a  good  example  of  Cole- 
ridge's theory  of  the  literary  life — that  it  should 
always  be  associated  with  some  more  practical  or 
secular  pursuit,  which  may  afford,  not  only  a  less 
precarious  subsistence,  but  also  the  intellectual  in- 
vigoration  that  comes  of  habitual  contact  with  the 
world.  Addison  had  hardly  begun  to  write  fugi- 
tive pieces  for  the   public,  under  the  auspices  of 


54  Character-Sketches. 

Dryden,  when  he  became  a  pensioned  and  party 
politician.  His  travels  on  the  Continent,  during 
which  he  wrote  his  once  famous  epistle  to  Lord 
Halifax,  and  began  his  treatise  on  medals,  his 
Cato,  and  the  narrative  of  his  tour  in  Italy,  were 
undertaken  at  the  expense  of  the  Government,  as 
a  preparation  for  its  diplomatic  service.  Through 
nearly  all  his  life  he  was  in  Parliament  or  in  office 
in  either  England  or  Ireland.  The  first  of  his  im- 
mortal Essays  were  sent  from  Ireland  to  Steele, 
for  the  "  Tattler."  He  was  in  the  Cabinet,  as  Sec- 
retary of  State,  when  he  was  compelled  to  retire  by 
reason  of  the  malady  which,  not  long  after,  ended 
his  days;  and  he  died  at  Holland  House,  the  center 
of  the  higher  social  and  intellectual  world  of  Lon- 
don. Addison  died  comparatively  young,  aged  not 
forty-eight  years.  He  had  eleven  or  twelve  years 
less  of  life  than  Macaulay.  Had  he  been  permitted 
to  work  in  the  rich  maturity  of  his  powers,  through 
those  eleven  years,  he  might  have  achieved  as  much 
as  Macaulay,  and  might  also  have  given  as  crown- 
ing a  proof  of  the  compatibility  of  an  active  public 
career  with  the  highest  order  of  intellectual  culture 
and  of  literary  productiveness. 

Walter  Scott,  Robert  Southey,  Samuel  Johnson, 
or  any  other  modern  Englishman  exclusively  de- 
voted to  literature,  can  hardly  dispute  the  palm 
with  Macaulay,  notwithstanding  his  active  political 
life.     As  a  poet  he  was  their  equal,  not  excepting 


M.KAULAV  —  LllKkAkN     LllK.  55 

Scott.  The  "  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome  "  have  pas- 
sages of  as  genuine  poetry  as  can  be  found  in  the 
"  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  or  in  any  other  of  Scott's 
metrical  productions.  As  a  critic  he  was  incom- 
parably their  superior.  His  linguistic  attainments, 
to  say  nothing  of  his  rare  critical  acumen,  might 
have  enabled  him  to  compete  with  Johnson,  even, 
as  a  lexicographer.  Few  men  have  been  more  ca- 
pable of  reproducing  the  scheme,  repeated  by 
Richardson,  of  Johnson's  great  dictionary — the  ex- 
emplification of  the  use  of  words  by  citations  from 
authors.  His  powers  as  a  historian  were  far 
above  those  of  Johnson  as  a  critical  biographer, 
and  may  well  be  compared  with  those  of  Scott  as  a 
historical  novelist.  In  the  versatility  as  well  as 
the  accuracy  of  his  knowledge  in  languages,  an- 
cient and  modern,  in  literature  of  all  ages  and 
nearly  all  nations,  in  history,  in  political  and  even 
in  theological  science,  he  surpasses  them.  We 
cannot,  indeed,  recall  another  Englishman  who  so 
completely  represents  the  literary  life ;  though,  of 
course,  scores  can  be  named  who  have  shown  more 
special  genius. 

It  were  much  to  be  wished  that  the  example  of 
such  men  as  Bacon,  Clarendon,  Bolingbroke,  Addi- 
son, Fox,  Burke,  Jeffrey,  Brougham,  Mackintosh, 
Macaulay,  Gladstone,  Disraeli,  Lubbock,  Grote, 
Bulwer,  Derby,  Kinglake,  and  many  others  in  En- 
glish political  life,  could  be  imitated  by  our  own 


56  Character-Sketches. 

public  men.  If  some  of  our  statesmen,  like  Frank- 
lin, Jefferson,  the  younger  Adams,  Everett,  and  Sum- 
ner, have  carried  into  public  life  some  devotion 
to  letters  or  philosophy,  few,  if  any  of  them,  have 
ever  yielded  any  direct  results  of  such  culture  after 
they  have  once  entered  the  political  arena.  Amer- 
ican politics  are  an  engulfing  abyss,  fathomless  and 
shoreless.  Bancroft,  Motley,  Bryant,  Irving,  Haw- 
thorne', and  a  few  others,  have  kept  up  their  liter- 
ary aims,  with  a  partial  devotion  to  political  or 
official  life  ;  but  we  have  yet  to  produce  a  single 
example  of  high  statesmanship  allied  with  high  and 
productive  literary  culture.  Gibbon  records  that 
he  found  his  experience  in  a  camp  of  British  mil- 
itia a  help  to  the  composition  of  his  great  History, 
and  that  his  intellect  was  never  more  vigorous,  nor 
his  style  more  facile,  than  ''  in  the  winter  hurry  of 
society  and  Parliament."  His  services  as  Commis- 
sioner of  Trade  and  Plantations,  and  the  exhila- 
rating debates  of  the  House,  relieved  his  mind  of 
the  fatigue  of  study,  and  healthfully  stimulated  his 
faculties  to  resume,  the  next  day,  their  wonted 
task.  Grote,  the  historian  of  Greece,  derived  sim- 
ilar advantage  from  his  parliamentary  experience. 
Macaulay's  biographer  says  that  "  the  routine  of 
the  Pay-office,  and  the  obligations  of  the  Treasury 
Bench  in  the  House  of  Commons,  were  of  benefit 
to  him  while  he  was  engaged  upon  Monmouth's 
invasion  and  the   Revolution  of  1688."     His  vivid 


MaCAULAY— LlTKRARY    LiFE.  5/ 

and  virile  style  ;  the  athletic  manner,  at  once  grace- 
ful and  powerful,  with  which  he  attacks  every  diffi- 
culty of  his  subject  ;  his  liberal  and  wholesome 
temper;  his  universal  humanity,  without  a  tinge  of 
Pharisaism  or  cant — the  whole  individuality  of  the 
man,  in  fine,  spontaneously  manifest  on  every 
page,  and  bearing  his  reader  irresistibly  along  with 
him,  must  be  attributed  largely  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  no  literary  recluse,  but  a  man  of  affairs,  a  man 
of  society,  a  man  of  the  world,  in  the  best  sense 
of  the  phrase.  There  is  no  figure  of  more  manly 
bearing  in  the  whole  lists  of  English  authorship 
since  the  day  of  Raleigh.  His  every  step  is  strong 
and  forward,  down  to  the  last  few  years,  in  which, 
by  the  splendid  success  of  the  early  volumes  of  his 
History,  he  became  absorbed  in  the  composition 
of  the  remainder,  retired  mostly  from  public  life, 
declined  dinner  invitations  and  society  generally, 
became  mortally  sick,  and  began  to  record  in  his 
journals  new  and  startling  experiences  of  low  spir- 
its, irresolution  in  work,  and  other  of  those  more 
or  less  disabling  infirmities  which,  though  com- 
mon enough  in  the  ordinary,  exclusive  life  of 
literary  men,  were  seldom  or  never  known  to  him 
before. 

It  would  be  an  interesting  task  to  trace,  if  po*s- 
sible,  in  his  writings  and  memoirs,  the  conditions 
of  his  vigorous  and  manifold  intellectual  life.  We 
attempt  this  task,  not  without  foreseeing,  however, 


S8  Character-Sketches. 

that  the  limits  and  necessarily  cursory  manner  of  a 
brief  essay  must  render  it  only  an  attempt. 

He  built  on  a  good  natural  basis — the  mens  sana 
in  corpore  sano.  We  need  hardly  affirm  that  he 
possessed  that  ambiguous  power  called  genius.  If 
extraordinary  native  capacities,  or  special  aptitudes 
of  mind,  are  meant  by  the  word,  he  certainly  had 
it  to  a  rare  degree ;  for  in  historical  painting,  in  bio- 
graphic portraiture,  in  dramatic  effects,  he  has  sel- 
dom been  equaled.  If  Buffon's  definition  of  genius 
is  correct,  we  may  still  more  decidedly  claim  it  for 
him.  The  great  naturalist,  who  ranks  among  his 
countrymen  as  a  literary  model  as  well  as  a  sci- 
entist, defined  it  to  be  a  habitude  of  patience  in 
intellectual  work.  "  I  trace  a  first  sketch,"  he  said, 
in  the  not  ungenial  egotism  of  his  old  age,  "  and 
in  doing  this  I  do  what  a  hundred  writers  in  Eu- 
rope can  do.  I  copy  it,  and  obtain  a  result  which 
but  twenty  writers  can  obtain.  I  recop)^  a  second 
and  a  third  time,  and  achieve  at  last  what  Buffon 
alone  can  do."  Macaulay  had,  at  least,  a  genius,  a 
capacity  for  work  ;  and  is  not  this  the  most  nor- 
mal and  most  effective  genius  for  our  "  work-day 
planet }  "  Before  his  health  failed  he  went  to  his 
daily  task  with  the  zest  with  which  an  epicure  goes 
to  a  banquet.  His  biographer  says  that  ''  he  would 
do  nothing  against  the  grain  ; "  but  with  his 
healthy  and  versatile  nature  nothing,  save  mathe- 
matics  and    metaphysics,   was    against    the    grain. 


MaCAULAY— LliERAKV    LllK.  59 

He  followed,  in  this  respect,  Goethe's  theory  of 
education  and  intellectual  life,  as  taught  in  Wil- 
helm  Meister — that  the  training  and  work  of  a 
man  should  be  in  the  line  of  his  natural  aptitudes, 
his  natural  proclivities,  these  being  the  instincts  of 
his  natural  capabilities.  Like  all  healthy  minds, 
he  loved  labor  for  its  own  sake  as  well  as  for  its 
sure  results.  *'  The  pleasure  of  writing  pays  it- 
self," he  said.  He  lived  in  books  more  than  in 
politics,  or  in  society,  or  in  any  thing  else.  It 
may  be  doubted  whether  any  man  of  his  day  read 
more,  or  more  indiscriminately.  He  devoured 
books,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent.  His  friend, 
Sydney  Smith,  said,  '*  Macaulay  not  only  over- 
flows with  knowledge ;  he  stands  in  the  slop." 
Bad  or  indifferent  books  were,  at  least,  of  negative 
advantage  to  him  ;  they  warned  him  against  their 
own  faults.  In  his  usual  walks  through  the  streets 
of  London,  he  wended  his  way  among  the  crowd 
poring  over  a  volume.  His  research  for  his  writ- 
ings was  tireless ;  and  the  minutest  or  obscurest 
data,  in  obsolete  periodicals,  pamphlets,  street  bal- 
lads, caricatures,  seldom  eluded  his  keen  glance. 
He  never  recoiled  from  the  lowest  drudgery  of 
composition.  He  reconstructed  chapters,  recast 
paragraphs,  added  or  erased  sentences,  for  the 
slightest  improvements.  In  finishing  either  his 
manuscript  or  his  "  proof,"  he  was  fastidious  even 
to  the  smallest  matter  of  punctuation.     He  equaled 


6o  Character-Sketches. 

Buffon  in  labor  on  his  style,  and  his  manuscript 
pages,  an  example  of  which  may  be  seen  in  the 
British  Museum,  were  a  maze  of  interlineations, 
erasures,  and  blotches.  He  knew,  by  experience, 
the  value  of  Johnson's  rule,  not  to  pause  in  the 
heat  of  composition,  for  any  verbal  matters  what- 
ever, but  to  reserve  these  for  correction  when  the 
inspiration  of  his  subject  should  be  exhausted. 
His  usual  daily  task,  after  his  first  rough  draft,  was 
to  cover  six  foolscap  pages,  filling  in  the  outlines ; 
and  then  to  correct  and  complete  them  with  elab- 
orate care,  condensing  the^six  manuscript  into  two 
of  his  printed  pages. 

Mr.  Trevelyan  says  that  "  the  secret  of  his  proc- 
ess lay  in  this,  that  to  extraordinary  fluency  and 
facility  he  united  patient,  minute,  and  persistent 
diligence.  He  "  never  allowed  a  sentence  to  pa.-^s 
muster  till  it  was  as  good  as  he  could  make  it." 

It  was  in  this  laborious  manner  that  he  required 
his  transcendent  style — a  style  so  elegant,  and  yet 
so  impetuous  and  swift,  that  it  reminds  us  of  one 
of  its  finest  examples,  in  one  of  the  finest  passages 
of  his  *'  Lays  :  " 

"  Now,  by  our  sire  Quirinus, 

It  was  a  goodly  sight 
To  see  the  thirty  standards 

Swept  down  the  tide  of  flight." 

— "  That  is  the  way  of  doing  business,"  exclaimed 
Wilson,  of  Blackwood's  Magazine,  though  his  critical 


Macaulav— Lit  LIRA  Kv  Life.  6i 

as  well  as  political  antagonist — "  a  cut-and-thrust 
style;  Scott's  style  when  his  blood  was  up,  and  the 
first  words  came  like  a  vanguard  impatient  for  bat- 
tle." It  was  Scott's  style  only  when  his  blood  was 
up,  but  it  was,  more  or  less,  Macaulay's  habitual 
style,  for  his  blood  was  always  up  when  his  subject 
allowed  it  to  be  so.  His  style  was  like  a  full-blooded 
steed  on  the  race-course,  fleet,  direct,  and  of  simple 
but  splendid  proportions.  A  society  of  English 
workmen  sent  him  a  vote  of  thanks  for  having 
written  a  history  of  their  country  which  they  could 
understand  ;  and  yet  what  English  scholar  does  not 
read  him  with  enthusiasm  for  his  style,  in  spite  of 
its  occasional  obvious  defects?  Doubtless  what  we 
may  call  his  intellectual  temperament  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it,  for,  to  cite  Buffon  again,  *'  the 
style  is  the  man,*'  or,  as  he  more  pertinently  has  it, 
*V^  riiomme;''  but  it  was  labor,  we  repeat,  that 
made  it  the  most  vigorous  and  admirable,  perhaps,  in 
our  literature.  It  is  a  dangerous  style  for  imitators, 
as  he  himself  said  ;  more  so  than  even  Johnson's 
pompous  Latinism.  He  had  early  to  combat  its 
tendency  to  rhetorical  excess.  Some  of  the  finest 
passages  of  his  essays  are  more  or  less  marred  by 
that  tendency.  The  gorgeous  description  of  West- 
minister Hall,  at  the  trial  of  Hastings,  shows  it. 
But  in  spite  of  it,  his  healthful  temperament,  and 
his  inexorable  self-discipline  and  labor,  made  him, 
to   both  foreign  and   native  readers,   the   best   of 


62  Character-Sketches. 

English  writers,  in  respect  of  his  manner  of  writ- 
ing- 
Genius,  then,  it  maybe  admitted,  he  had,  whether 
in  the  sense  of  Buffon,  or  in  the  more  popular 
sense  of  that  word.  But  from  Macaulay's  health- 
ful and  well-balanced  mind,  the  usual  salient,  or  ec- 
centric distinctions  of  genius,  so  called,  were  en- 
tirely absent.  He  contemned  all  attempts  at 
originality  of  style,  whether  style  of  thought  or 
language;  and  had,  therefore,  but  little  respect  for 
Carlyle.  He  reprobated  the  ''  spasmodic  and  ec- 
centric "  character  of  much  of  our  popular  litera- 
ture. "  Every  writer,"  he  remarks,  "  seems  to  aim 
at  doing  something  odd — at  defying  all  rules  and 
canons  of  criticism.  The  meter  must  be  queer; 
the  diction  queer ;  so  great  is  the  taste  for  oddity, 
that  men  who  have  no  recommendation  but  oddity 
hold  a  high  place  in  vulgar  estimation."  In  his 
own  pages  our  attention  is  struck  by  no  bizarre 
trait,  but  by  his  sustained  and*  decisive  mastery  of 
whatever  he  attempts.  He  had  nothing  in  common 
with  the  weird  genius  of  Carlyle.  It  is  fortunate, 
for  the  language,  that  the  two  historians  were  con- 
temporaries. Carlyle's  early  style  showed  his  capa- 
bility for  the  best  English,  but  he  chose  to  abandon 
it  for  an  originality  or  oddity,  which  has  justly 
been  called  "  word  mangling  ;  "  his  books  are  verbal 
torture  chambers.  His  historical  writings,  in  spite 
of  his  research  and  dramatic  power,  have  so  much 


MaCALLAV  —  LllEKAKV    LUK  O3 

the  character  of  rhapsodies  as  to  justify  the  excla- 
mation of  Prescott,  when  he  closed  "  The  French 
Revolution :  "  "  This  will  never  do  for  history." 
Carlyle's  chief  portrait  in  this  book  is  that  of  Mira- 
beau  ;  an  able  historian  of  our  times  (Justin  McCar- 
thy) justly  says  that  '*  Carlyle's  *  Mirabeau  '  is  as 
truly  a  creature  of  romance  as  the  *  Monte  Cristo  '  of 
Dumas."  "  The  reader  dares  not  trust  such  history 
as  Frederick  the  Great."  Fortunate  it  is  that,  of 
the  two  most  influential  writers  of  our  day,  while 
one  has  threatened  the  utter  perversion  of  the  nor- 
mal English  style,  of  both  thought  and  expression, 
the  other  has  been  stanchly  loyal  to  both,  and  has 
shown  that  they  can  both  be  as  splendid  as  they 
have  always  been  vigorous.  The  Apollo  Belvedere 
is  assuredly  a  more  attractive  work  of  art  than  the 
writhing  Laocoon. 

Macaulay  was  precocious,  and  his  precocity  prob- 
ably gave  him  some  eight  or  ten  years*  advantage 
over  most  students.^  Intellectual  precocity  is  usu- 
ally supposed  to  imply  premature  decay;  but  while 
some  facts  favor  the  supposition,  more  facts  contra- 
dict it.  Most  remarkable  men  have  given  more  or 
less  promise  of  their  hereafter  in  childhood.  It  is 
seldom  that  intellectual  greatness  is  not  founded  in 
some  original  or  inborn  capability.  **  The  child  is 
father  to  the  man "  in  this,  as  in  other  respects  J 
and  human  nature  is  more  self-revealing  in  child- 
hood than  in  any  other  period  of  life.     Intellectual 


64  Character-Sketches. 

precocity,  with  physical  feebleness,  may,  naturally 
enough,  prematurely  break  down  ;  but,  with  a 
sound  body,  it  may  be  an  enviable  vantage  ground. 
It  was  so  with  Macaulay.  '-He  was  small  but  ro- 
bust in  stature,  with  strongly  knitted  limbs,  broad 
rugged  features,  expressive  of  health  and  the  men- 
tal self-command  which  comes  of  health.  There 
was  little,  if  any,  Gaelic  or  Celtic  blood  in  him. 
If  not  precisely  Anglo-Saxon,  he  was  of  as  good 
metal,  as  both  his  mental  and  physical  constitu- 
tion showed,  for  the  Teutonic  element  was  strong 
in  him.  His  mother  was  Anglo-Saxon.  His  fa- 
ther was  a  Scotchman,  descended  from  the  old 
Norwegian  invaders  who  settled  in  the  Western 
Isles.  Carlyle,  a  genuine  Scotchman,  discerned  his 
lineage  at  a  glance.  "  I  noticed,"  he  says,  "  the 
homely  Norse  features  that  you  find  every-where  in 
the  Western  Isles,  and  I  thought  to  myself,  '  Well! 
any  one  can  see  that  you  are  an  honest,  good  sort 
of  fellow,  made  out  of  oat-meal.' "  One  of  the 
feats  of  his  precocious  genius  was  an  epic,  in  his 
eighth  year,  on  Olaus,  the  king  of  Norway,  from 
whom  the  Scotch  clan  to  which  the  young  writer 
belonged,  received  its  name.  Two  cantos  remain, 
extracts  from  which,  given  by  his  biographer,  show 
ability  astonishing  in  a  child. 

Incredible  things  are  told  of  his  early  habits  and 
achievements.     From  his  third  year  he  read  inces-  N^ 
santly,  "  lying  on  the  rug,  before  the  fire,  with  his 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  65 

open  book  on  the  ground,  and  a  piece  of  bread  and 
butter  in  his  hand."  At  other  times  he  would  *•  sit 
in  his  nankeen  frock,  perched  upon  the  table,  ex- 
pounding to  the  parlor-maid  out  of  a  book  as  big 
as  himself."  In  his  walks  with  the  maid  or  his 
mother  he-would  tell  innumerable  stories  out  of  his 
own  head,  using  already,  as  the  maid  said,  "  quite 
printed  words."  It  cannot  be  doubted  that  his 
speech  often  appeared,  as  Mr.  Trevelyan  says, 
"very  droll."  He  was  carried  to  the  famous 
Strawberry  Hill  of  Walpole,  and  ever  afterward 
bore  in  his  head  a  catalogue  of  its  "  Oxford  Collec- 
tion." While  there,  a  servant  waiting  upon  the 
company  spilled  some  hot  coffee  over  his  legs. 
After  the  kind  hostess  had  done  what  she  could 
for  his  relief  she  inquired  how  he  was  feeling. 
"  The  little  fellow  looked  up  in  her  face  and  re- 
plied, *  Thank  you,  madam,  the  agony  is  abated.' " 
He  wrote  hymns  which  Hannah  More,  one  of  the 
best  friends  of  the  family,  pronounced  **  quite  ex- 
traordinary for  such  a  baby."  Of  course,  his  fond 
mother,  a  gentle  Quakeress,  was  delighted  with  his 
surprising  gifts.  She  wrote,  "  My  dear  Tom  con- 
tinues to  show  marks  of  uncommon  genius.  He 
gets  on  wonderfully  in  all  branches  of  his  educa- 
tion, and  the  extent  of  his  reading,  and  of  the 
knowledge  he  has  derived  from  it,  are  truly  aston- 
ishing in  a  boy  not  eight  years  old.  He  is,  at 
the  same  time,  as  playful  as  a  kitten.     He  took 


^  Character-Sketches. 

into  his  head  to  write  a  '  Compendium  of  Universal 
History  '  about  a  year  ago,  and  he  really  contrived 
to  give  a  tolerably  connected  view  of  the  leading 
events  from  the  creation  to  the  present  time,  filling 
about  a  quire  of  paper.  He  told  me  one  day  that 
he  had  been  writing  a  paper  which  Henry  Daly 
was  to  translate  into  Malabar,  to  persuade 'the 
people  of  Travancore  to  embrace  the  Christian  relig- 
ion. On  reading  it,  I  found  it  to  contain  a  very 
clear  idea  of  the  leading  facts  and  doctrines  of  that 
religion,  with  some  strong  arguments  for  its  adop- 
tion." "  To  a  somewhat  later  period,"  adds  his 
biographer,  **  probably  belongs  a  vast  pile  of  blank 
verse,  entitled,  *  Fingal,  a  Poem  of  XH  Books,'  two 
of  which  are  in  a  complete  and  connected  shape,- 
while  the  rest  of  the  story  is  lost  amid  a  labyrinth 
of  many  hundred  scattered  lines,  so  transcribed  as 
to  suggest  a  conjecture  that  the  boy's  demand  for 
foolscap  had  outrun  the  paternal  generosity." 

Another  trait,  hardly  less  marvelous  than  his  pre- 
cocity, was  his  quickness  of  apprehension.  It  gave 
him  rare  facility  in  the  acquisition  of  knowledge. 
His  rapid  glance  pervaded,  not  only  the  subject  of 
the  book  he  was  reading,  but  also  its  relations  to 
other  subjects — its  lateral  bearings,  unnoticed  by 
the  author.  This  power  seemed  a  sort  of  unique 
faculty  with  him.  Paradoxical  as  it  may  appear,  he 
could  learn  a  book,  and  learn  it,  too,  ''  by  heart," 
without  apparently  reading  it.     Mr.  Trevelyan  tries 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  67 

to  explain  this  fact,  but  the  explanation  is  hardly 
intelligible.  The  quickness  of  his  brain  seemed  to 
give  quickness  to  his  vision,  so  that  he  saw,  at  a 
glance,  the  contents  of  a  printed  page.  It  was  like 
the  power  of  some  accountants,  who  by  a  mere 
flash  of  the  eye,  on  a  column  of  figures,  can  infal- 
libly estimate  their  sum.  This  **  extraordinary  fac- 
ulty, of  assimilating  printed  matter,  at  first  sight," 
remained  the  same,  we  are  assured,  "  through  life." 
"  To  the  end  he  read  books  faster  than  other  people 
skimmed  them,  and  skimmed  them  as  fast  as  any 
one  else  could  turn  the  leaves."  "  He  seemed  to 
read  through  the  skin,"  said  one  who  had  often 
witnessed  the  operation.  There  was  no  sacrifice  of 
accuracy  in  the  process,  as  Mr.  Trevelyan  assures 
us.  *'  Any  thing  which  had  once  appeared  in  type, 
from  the  highest  effort  of  genius  down  to  the  most 
detestable  trash  that  ever  consumed  ink  and  paper 
manufactured  for  better  things,  had,  in  his  eyes,  an 
authority  which  led  him  to  look  upon  misquotation 
as  a  species  of  minor  sacrilege." 

One  of  the  most  surprising  things  in  the  innu- 
merable criticisms  of  authors  recorded  in  his  essays, 
his  journals,  and  his  letters,  is  his  chronological 
and  verbal  minuteness  and  exactitude.  His  essay 
on  Miss  Aikin's  "  Addison,"  and  his  scathing  review 
of  Croker's  **  Johnson  " — a  terrible  instance  of  lit- 
erary ** vivisection" — and  the  still  more  terrible 
essay  on  Barere,  ar-e  examples.    A  striking  instance 


68  Character-Sketches. 

may  be  found  in  his  brilliant  essay  on  the  "  Comic 
Dramatists  of  the  Restoration,*'  where  he  refutes 
Wycherley's  claim  to  precocious  genius,  by  dis- 
proving the  dates  given  by  Wycherley  himself,  of 
the  composition  of  some  of  his  dramas.  After 
reasoning  on  more  general  grounds  against  the  hon- 
esty of  these  dates,  he  remarks :  **  When  we  look 
minutely  at  the  pieces  themselves,  we  find  in  every 
part  of  them  reason  to  suspect  the  accuracy  of 
Wycherley's  statements.  In  the  first  scene  of 
'  Love  in  a  Wood,'  to  go  no  further,  we  find  many 
passages  which  he  could  not  have  written  when  he 
was  nineteen.  There  is  an  allusion  to  gentlemen's 
periwigs,  which  first  came  in  fashion  in  1663  ;  an  allu- 
sion to  guineas,  which  were  first  struck  in  1663  ;  an 
allusion  to  the  vests  which  Charles  ordered  to  be 
worn  at  court  in  1666;  an  allusion  to  the  fire  of 
1666;  and  several  political  allusions  which  must  be 
assigned  to  times  later  than  the  year  of  the  Resto- 
ration, to  times  when  the  government  and  the  city 
were  opposed  to  each  other,  and  when  the  Presby- 
terian ministers  had  been  driven  from  the  parish 
churches  to  the  conventicles.  But  it  is  needless  to 
dwell  on  particular  expressions ;  the  whole  air  and 
spirit  of  the  piece  belong  to  a  period  subsequent 
to  that  mentioned  by  Wycherley.  As  to  the  *  Plain 
Dealer,'  which  is  said  to  have  been  written  when  he 
was  twenty-five,  it  contains  one  scene  unquestion- 
ably written  after  1675,  several  which  are  later  than 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  69 

1668,  and   scarcely  a   line    which   can   hav^e   been 
composed  before  the  end  of  1666." 

Almost  every  one  of  his  essays  shows  this  min- 
ute accuracy ;  his  letters  and  journals  abound  also 
in  similar  examples.  He  makes  particular  criti- 
cisms and  emendations  of  the  original  text  of  his 
favorite  Latin  and  Greek  authors.  Besides  abun- 
dant marginal  notes,  he  pencils,  at  the  end  of  each 
drama  of  the  three  Greek  tragedians,  small  critical 
essays,  and,  judging  from  the  specimens  given  by 
Mr.  Trevelyan,  they  show  not  only  good  sense  and 
taste,  but  exact  scholarship.  He  changes  his  early 
estimate  of  Euripides,  the  representative  of  the  de- 
cline of  the  Attic  tragedy,  and  gives  good  critical 
reasons  for  the  change ;  he  places  him  above  Soph- 
ocles, the  representative  of  its  climax  ;  he  exults 
over  the  genius  of  ^schylus,  and  traces  in  him  the 
studies  of  Milton,  not  without  correcting  Milton's 
"  sad  Electra's  poet,"  by  showing  that  he  alluded 
to  the  Orestes,  not  the  Electra.  Even  the  dull 
pages  of  the  Thebais  of  Statins  are  critically  stud- 
ied, and  marked  with  such  observations  as  "  Gray 
has  translated  this  passage ; "  "  Racine  took  a 
hint  here ;  "  and  "  Nobly  imitated,  and,  indeed,  far 
surpassed,  by  Chaucer."  He  gives  thanks  for 
having  been  able  to  finish  Silius  Italicus — for  he 
finished  the  very  fag-ends  of  Greek  and  Latin  lit- 
erature— and  remarks  that  **  Pope  must  have  read 
him  before  me ;  in  the  Temple  of  Fame  and  the 


70  Character-Sketches. 

Essay  on  Criticism  are  some  touches  plainly  sug- 
gested by  Silius."  He  looks  over  Coleridge's 
"Remains,"  and  exclaims:  "What  stuff  some  of 
his  criticisms  on  style  are !  Think  of  his  saying 
that  scarcely  any  English  writer  before  the  Revo- 
lution used  the  Saxon  genitive,  except  with  a  name 
indicating  a  living  being,  as  where  a  personification 
was  intended.  About  twenty  lines  of  Shakspeare 
occurred  to  me  in  five  minutes.  In  King  John : 
*'Nor  let  my  kingdom's  rivers  take  their  course/ 
In  Hamlet :  '  Th«  law's  delay.'  In  Romeo  and 
Juliet :  *  My  bosom's  lord  sits  lightly  on  his  throne.' 
In  Richard  III.,  strongest  of  all:  *  Why,  then,  All 
Souls'  Day  is  my  body's  doomsday.'  " 

He  dines  at  Baron  Parke's,  with  Brougham,  his 
malicious  enemy,  and  says  :  "  He  was  pleasant,  but, 
as  usual,  excessively  absurd,  and  exposed  himself 
quite  ludicrously  on  one  subject.  He  maintained 
that  it  was  doubtful  w^hether  the  tragic  poet  was 
Euripides  or  Euripides.  It  was  Euripides  in  his 
Ainsworth.  There  is,  he  said,  no  authority  either 
way.  I  answered  by  quoting  a  couple  of  lines  from 
Aristophanes.  I  could  have  overwhelmed  him  with 
quotations.  *  O,'  said  this  great  scholar,  '  those  are 
iambics.  Iambics  are  very  capricious  and  irregular, 
not  like  hexameters.*  I  kept  my  countenance,  and 
so  did  Parke."  Macaulay  was  seldom,  probably 
never,  caught  napping,  and  woe  to  any  pretentious 
critic  who  was  so  found  in  his  presence. 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  71 

Both  the  swiftness  and  the  accuracy  of  this  strange 
acquisitive  power  were  shown  in  his  method  of 
learning  a  language.  He  says:  "  My  way  is  always 
to  begin  with  the  Bible,  which  I  can  read  without  a 
dictionary.  After  a  few  days  passed  in  this  way,  I 
am  master  of  all  the  common  particles,  the  common 
rules  of  syntax,  and  a  pretty  large  vocabulary. 
Then  I  fall  on  some  good  classical  work."  In  a  few 
weeks  he  was  reading  the  classical  works  as  readily 
as  his  favorite  English  books.  He  proposed  to 
"  make  himself  a  good  German  scholar"  on  his  pas- 
sage back  from  India  to  England,  and  did  so.  After 
reading  Luther's  New  Testament,  he  plunged  into 
Schiller's  "  Thirty  Years'  War,"  and  was  soon  famil- 
iar with  Goethe,  Miiller,  Tieck,  Lessing,  and  most 
of  the  classics  of  the  language.  During  the  years 
which  he  spent  in  India,  though  he  did  good  official 
work  in  education  and  legislation,  especially  in  his 
**  Code,"  through  which  he  is  becoming  recognized 
as  the  modem  legislator  of  India,  he  seemed,  never- 
theless, buried  in  miscellaneous  books.  Not  even 
Southey,  at  Keswick,  was  more  a  bookworm ;  for 
he  could  in  three  hours  do  more  real  study  than 
most  students  could  do  in  fifteen.  He  went  through, 
critically,  nearly  the  whole  course  of  Greek  and 
Latin  authors  in  serial  editions,  which  Napier,  of 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  had  sent  out  to  him,  and 
this  besides  an  incredible  amount  of  French,  Italian, 
Spanish,  and  English  reading.     Many  of  the  largest 


72  Character-Sketches. 

Greek  and  Latin  classics  he  read  over  and  over 
again,  and  meanwhile  sent  to  Napier  some  of  his 
finest  review  articles.  On  his  way  out  to  India  he 
kept  himself  in  his  state-room,  among  his  books, 
with  the  devotion  of  an  old  Benedictine  monk  in 
his  studious  cell.  He  writes:  **  Except  at  meals  I 
hardly  exchanged  a  word  with  any  human  being. 
I  never  was  left  so  long  a  time  so  completely  to  my 
own  resources,  and  I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  found 
them  quite  sufficient  to  keep  me  cheerful  and  em- 
ployed. During  the  whole  voyage  I  read  with  keen 
and  increasing  enjoyment.  I  devoured  Greek,  Latin, 
Spanish,  Italian,  French,  and  English  ;  folios,  quar- 
tos, octavos,  and  duodecimos."  Again  he  says: 
"  My  power  of  finding  amusement  without  compan- 
ions was  pretty  well  tried  on  my  voyage.  I  read 
insatiably  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  Virgil,  Horace, 
Caesar's  Commentaries,  Bacon's  De  Augmentis, 
Dante,  Petrarch,  Ariosto,  Tasso,  Don  Quixote,  Gib- 
bon's Rome,  Mill's  India,  all  the  seventy  volumes 
of  Voltaire,  Sismondi's  History  of  France,  and  the 
seven  thick  folios  of  the  Biographia  Britannica.  I 
found  my  Greek  and  Latin  in  good  condition 
enough." 

He  proceeds  to  give  striking  critical  observations 
on  many  of  these  authors,  for,  rapid  as  was  his 
reading,  it  was,  nevertheless,  by  his  peculiar  faculty 
of  quick  apprehension  and  insight,  remarkably 
thorough. 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  y^ 

After  being  some  time  in  India  he  writes  :  "  Dur- 
ing the  last  thirteen  months  I  have  read  ^Eschylus 
twice,  Sophocles  twice,  Euripides  once,  Pindar 
twice,  Callimachus,  Apollonius  Rhodius,  Quintus, 
Calabar,  Theocritus  twice,  Herodotus,  Thucydides, 
almost  all  Xenophon's  works,  almost  all  Plato,  Aris- 
totle's Politics,  and  a  good  deal  of  his  Organon,  be- 
sides dipping  elsewhere  in  him  ;  the  whole  of  Plu- 
tarch's Lives ;  about  half  of  Lucan,  two  or  three 
books  of  Atheneus  twice,  Plautus  twice,  Terence 
twice,  Lucretius  twice,  Catullus,  Tibullus,  Pro- 
pertius,  Lucan,  Statius,  Silius  Italicus,  Livy,  Vel- 
leius  Paterculus,  Sallust,  Caesar,  and,  lastly,  Cicero ; 
I  am  now  deep  in  Aristophanes  and  Lucian." 

Mr.  Trevelyan  says  that  these  works  were  read 
critically,  as  the  penciled  notes,  covering  the  mar- 
gins and  blank  leaves,  show.  He  read  as  a  mental 
recreation  not  only  the  great  masters,  but,  as  we 
have  intimated,  the  minor  and  least  read  of  Greek 
and  Latin  writers — their  poorest  remnants — anno- 
tating them  with  learned  particularity,  but  dis- 
patching them  with  his  usual  speed.  At  the  con- 
clusion of  each  volume  of  his  own  History  he  read 
through,  as  relaxation,  Herodotus,  who,  next  to 
Thucydides,  was  his  model  historian.  He  would 
read  through  the  Melpomene  in  a  single  sitting. 
He  read  through  the  last  five  books  of  the  Iliad  '*  at 
a  stretch,  on  a  walk,"  and  with  hearty  apprecia- 
tion :  "  I  could  not,"  he  writes,  **  tear  myself  away. 


74  Character-Sketches. 

I  was  forced  to  turn  into  a  by-path  lest  the  parties 
of  walkers  should  see  me  blubbering  for  imaginary 
beings,  the  creations  of  a  ballad-maker  who  has 
been  dead  two  thousand  seven  hundred  years. 
What  is  the  power  and  glory  of  Caesar  and  Alex- 
ander to  such  power  as  his  !  " 

He  finished  Buckle's  first  ponderous  volume  in 
one  day — skimming  some  parts,  certainly,  but  ac- 
curately comprehending  the  whole,  and  critically 
estimating  it.  Elaborate  works,  in  foreign  lan- 
guages, over  which  most  scholars  would  pore  for 
weeks,  he  could  dispatch  in  as  many  days,  closing 
them  often  with  criticisms  important  and  minute 
enough  to  elate  the  pedantry  of  a  plodding  German 
professor. 

We  may  well  again  lift  a  warning  voice  to  youth- 
ful literary  aspirants  who  would  wish  to  imitate  him. 
Admirable  Crichtons  are  fatal  models.  Macau- 
lay's  example  would  be  ruinous  to  most  students 
who  should  attempt  to  copy  it.  He  was  an  intel- 
lectual anomaly,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  rare 
balance  of  his  mental  constitution,  he  would  have 
been  an  intellectual  monster. 

Some  of  our  readers  are,  doubtless,  by  this  time 
disposed  to  suspect  that  we  have  been  dealing  in 
exaggerations.  But  we  have  adhered  to  the  literal 
truth.  Another  of  his  characteristics,  which  was  as 
remarkable  as  those  already  treated — his  precocity, 
his  genius,   his  working    power,   his    quickness  of 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  75 

apprehension  and  insight  —  and  which,  in  union 
with  these,  was  one  of  the  most  important  condi- 
tions of  his  intellectual  growth  and  literary  success, 
was  a  marvelous  retentive  power.  An  extraordi- 
nary memory  is  not  invariably  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  colossal  intellect.  Insight,  and  the 
reasoning  faculty,  are  the  chief  constituents  of  a 
great  mind ;  and  many  a  man  of  genius,  like  Mon- 
taigne, who  often  forgot  the  names  of  his  serv- 
ants, and  sometimes  even  his  own,  suffered  life- 
long vexation  from  a  memory  treacherous  in  mat- 
ters of  detail.  The  almost  perfect  balance  of  Ma- 
caulay's  faculties  saved  him  from  the  tendency  of 
most  men  of  extraordinary  memories,  to  waive,  in 
their  mental  exigencies,  the  exercise  of  the  logical 
faculty,  and  to  fall  back,  for  guidance,  on  mere  prec- 
edents. With  him,  memory  was  subsidiary  to  that 
faculty ;  a  magazine  of  resources  for  every  kind  of 
intellectual  effort. 

It  would  be  hardly  possible  to  believe  the  feats 
recorded  about  his  memor>',  were  they  not  indis- 
putably authenticated.  "  The  secret  "  of  his  im- 
mense acquirements  lay  "  in  two  invaluable  gifts  of 
nature,"  says  Mr.  Trevelyan,  "  an  unerring  memory, 
and  the  capacity  of  taking  in,  at  a  glance,  the  con- 
tents of  a  printed  page."  **  During  the  first  part  of 
his  life,  whatever  caught  his  fancy  he  remembered 
without  going  through  the  process  of  consciously 
getting  it  by  heart."     When  a  child,  calling  with  his 


"j^  Character- Sketches. 

father  on  a  neighbor,  he  found,  on  the  parlor  table, 
Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  and  read  it,  for 
the  first  time,  while  the  elders  were  conversing. 
On  his  return  he  sat  down  on  his  mother's  bed  and 
repeated  to  her  canto  after  canto  till  her  patience 
gave  out.  He  used  to  say,  in  later  life,  that  if,  by 
any  vandalism,  every  copy  of  Paradise  Lost  and  Pil- 
grim's Progress,  were  destroyed,  he  could  repro- 
duce them  from  his  memory.  When  but  thirteen 
years  old,  while  waiting  in  a  coffee-house  for  a  post- 
chaise,  he  picked  up  a  country  journal  in  which  were 
two  poems,  such  as  ordinarily  occupy  the  corners 
of  weekly  newspapers.  *'  He  looked  them  once 
through,  and  never  gave  them  a  thought  for  forty 
years,  at  the  end  of  which  time  he  repeated  them 
both  without  missing,  or,  as  far  as  he  knew,  chang- 
ing a  single  word."  He  believed  he  could  rewrite 
Richardson's  *'  Sir  Charles  Grandison"  from  memory. 
"  He  was  always  willing  to  accept  a  friendly  chal- 
lenge to  a  feat  of  memory.  One  day,  in  the  Board 
room  of  the  British  Museum,  Sir  David  Dundas  saw 
him  hand  to  Lord  Aberdeen  a  sheet  of  foolscap 
covered  with  writing  arranged  in  three  parallel  col- 
umns down  each  of  the  four  pages.  This  docu- 
ment, of  which  the  ink  was  still  wet,  proved  to  be 
a  full  list  of  the  Senior  Wranglers  at  Cambridge, 
with  their  dates  and  colleges  for  the  hundred  years 
during  which  the  names  of  Senior  Wranglers  had 
been    recorded    in    the    university    calendar.       On 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  ^y 

another  occasion  Sir  David  asked  :  *  Macaulay,  do 
you  know  your  Popes?  '  *  No,'  was  the  answer;  *  I 
always  get  wrong  among  the  Innocents.*  *  But  can 
you  say  your  Archbishops  of  Canterbury  ?  '  *  Any 
fool,'  said  Macaulay,  '  could  say  his  Archbishops  of 
Canterbury  backwards : '  and  he  went  off  at  score, 
drawing  breath  only  once,  in  order  to  remark  on  the 
oddity  of  there  having  been  both  an  Archbishop 
Bancroft  and  an  Archbishop  Bancroft,— until  Sir 
David  stopped  him  at  Cranmer." 

In  his  fifty-fifth  year  he  writes:  "  My  memory  I 
often  try,  and  find  it  as  good  as  ever."  Two  years 
later  he  says :  "  I  walked  in  the  portico,  and  learned 
by  heart  the  noble  fourth  act  of  the  Merchant  of 
Venice."  There  are  four  hundred  lines  in  the  act ; 
he  had  known  one  hundred  and  fifty  of  them.  In 
two  hours  he  now  made  himself  master  of  them  all, 
including  the  prose  letter.  This  was  about  three 
years  before  his  death.  The  only  difference  in  his 
wonderful  memory  between  his  childhood  and  this 
period  was  that  in  the  former  "  whatsoever  he  took 
a  fancy  to  "  was  involuntarily  remembered  ;  now  to 
learn  by  heart  was  a  voluntary,  but  never  a  labo- 
rious, act.  It  was  an  intellectual  recreation.  When 
made  a  peer  he  **  studied  the  peerage,**  and  could 
repeat  the  entire  roll  of  the  House  of  Lords.  When 
done  with  the  peerage,  he  turned  to  the  calendars 
of  Cambridge  and  Oxford,  and  wrote,  "  I  have  now 
the  whole  of   our   university  Fasti   by   heart ;  all, 


78  Character-Sketches. 

I  mean,  that  is  worth  remembering — an  idle  thing, 
but  I  wished  to  try  whether  my  memory  is  as  strong 
as  it  used  to  be,  and  I  perceive  no  decay."  Such 
acquisitive  and  retentive  faculties  are  valuable  be- 
yond all  estimation  for  a  student.  They  enable 
him  to  work  miracles.  They  relieve  him  of  nearly 
all  the  drudgery  of  scholarship. 

Another  notable  characteristic,  the  result  of  these 
rare  powers,  was  his  extraordinary  versatility.  Our 
remarks  thus  far  have  necessarily  anticipated  this 
fact.  Its  proofs  are  visible  in  all  his  works,  and 
throughout  his  '*  Life  and  Letters."  We  have  men- 
tioned his  knowledge  of  languages.  He  knew  their 
respective  literatures  well  enough  to  be  a  professor 
of  any  of  them  in  any  university  of  England, 
France,  Germany,  Italy,  or  Spain.  He  studied  the 
Portuguese  to  read  Camoens,  but  found  the  Lusiad 
"  enough  "  for  him  in  that  tongue.  In  a  casual 
conversation  at  a  dinner  table,  he  could  discuss  any 
of  their  important  authors  with  critical  minuteness, 
discriminating  not  only  the  best  plays,  but  the  best 
characters,  in  Moliere  and  Corneille,  Goethe  and 
Schiller,  Alfieri  and  Goldoni,  or  in  the  almost  end- 
less lists  of  Calderon  and  Lope  de  Vega.  Nearly 
every  one  of  his  essays  is  a  good  example  of  his 
versatility,  an  ample  resume  of  the  best  students' 
knowledge,  not  only  of  the  character  or  subject 
treated,  but  of  its  epoch,  summarized  with  a  mar- 
velous tact,  and  colored  by  an  artist's  hand.    Thack- 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  79 

eray  wrote  of  him :  "  Take,  at  hazard,  any  three 
pages  of  the  essay  or  history,  and,  glimmering  below 
the  stream  of  the  narrative,  you,  an  average  reader, 
see  one,  two,  three,  a  half  score  of  allusions  to  other 
historic  facts,  characters,  literature,  poetry,  with 
which  you  are  acquainted.  Your  neighbor,  who 
has  his  reading  and  his  little  stock  of  literature 
stowed  away  in  his  mind,  shall  detect  more  points, 
allusions,  happy  touches,  indicating  not  only  the 
prodigious  memory  and  vast  learning  of  this  mas- 
ter, but  the  wonderful  industry,  the  honest,  humble, 
previous  toil,  of  this  great  scholar.  He  reads  twenty 
books  to  write  a  sentence ;  he  travels  a  hundred 
miles  to  make  a  line  of  description." 

We  can  hardly  be  surprised  that,  with  such  ver- 
satility, and  voracity  of  appetite  for  books,  he  be- 
came well  acquainted  with  theological  as  with  all 
other  kinds  of  literature.  Few  clergymen  have 
excelled  him  in  the  knowledge  of  their  own  science 
and  of  its  standard  authors.  He  was  familiar  with 
the  history  and  doctrines  of  the  numerous  sects 
of  his  country.  He  understood  well  the  great 
Methodistic  movement,  a  part  of  which  his  own 
father  represented  in  the  "  Christian  Observer." 
Methodists,  naturally  enough,  have  been  partial  to 
him  for  his  estimate  of  their  founder,  of  whom  he 
said,  in  his  article  on  Southey,  that  he  initiated 
a  most  remarkable  moral  revolution ;  that  he  was 
"  a   man   whose    eloquence    and    logical    acuteness 


8o  Character-Sketches. 

might  have  made  him  eminent  in  literature;  whose 
genius  for  government  was  not  inferior  to  that  of 
Richeheu  ;  and  who,  whatever  his  errors  may  have 
been,  devoted  all  his  powers,  in  defiance  of  obloquy 
and  derision,  to  what  he  sincerely  considered  as  the 
highest  good  of  his  species."  He  has  a  poor  opin- 
ion ''  of  some  writers  of  books  called  Histories 
of  England  under  the  reign  of  George  H.,  in  which 
the  rise  of  Methodism  is  not  mentioned,"  and  says 
that  in  a  hundred  years  "  such  a  breed  of  authors 
will  be  extinct."  Mr.  Trevelyan  says  "  he  was 
never  tired  of  ranging "  in  works  of  "  religious 
speculation,  and  was  widely  and  profoundly  read 
in  ecclesiastical  history.  ...  His  partiality  for 
studies  of  this  nature  is  proved  by  the  full  and 
elaborate  notes  with  which  he  has  covered  the 
margin  of  such  books  as  Warburton's  '  Julian,' 
Middleton's  *  Free  Inquiry,*  Middleton's  '  Letters 
to  Venn  and  Waterland,*  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
corps  of  polemical  treatises  which  the  *  Free  In- 
quiry' produced.  ...  It  may  be  safely  asserted 
that  in  one  corner  or  another  of  Macaulay's  library 
there  is  his  estimate  of  every  famous  or  notorious 
English  prelate  from  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth 
to  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century." 

We  have  alluded  to  his  rank  as  essayist,  poet, 
and  historian.  No  one  will  dispute  his  unapproach- 
able pre-eminence  as  a  critical  essayist.  He  was 
first  recognized  by  the  literary  world  in  this  char- 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  8i 

acter,  and  the  recognition  was  immediate  and 
general.  From  his  first  article,  on  Milton,  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  written  in  his  twenty-fifth 
year,  he  was  acknowledged  as  a  new  power  in  the 
intellectual  world.  The  most  exclusive  circles  of 
London  society  opened  their  doors  to  welcome 
him,  and  from  that  day  till  his  death  he  was  one  of 
the  celebrities  of  the  metropolis.  He  became  the 
chief  dependence  of  the  great  Scotch  review ;  it 
was  importunate  for  his  contributions,  and  he  could 
command  his  own  price  for  them.  Murray  de- 
clared that  it  would  be  worth  the  copyright  of 
Childe  Harold  to  have  Macaulay  on  the  staff  of 
the  "Quarterly" — the  competitor  of  the  "Edin- 
burgh." Nearly  every  one  of  his  articles  produced 
a  sensation  through  not  only  the  literary  and  social, 
but  often  through  the  political,  circles  of  the  coun- 
try. They  made  Brougham  rancorously  jealous, 
eclipsed  Sydney  Smith,  Mackintosh,  and  even  Jef- 
frey himself.  The  latter,  unlike  Brougham,  hailed 
with  a  sort  of  rapture  the  new  ascending  star,  and 
deeply  mourned  the  departure  of  Macaulay  from 
England  for  India ;  for  the  veteran  editor  never 
expected  to  see  him  again.  In  the  collected  re- 
publication of  his  essays,  Macaulay  deprecates 
criticism  on  his  "  Milton,"  and  his  other  early  re- 
views, especially  on  their  youthful  enthusiasm ; 
but  the  world  has  demanded  no  apology  for  them. 

They  are  so  replete  with  knowledge  and  reason — 
6 


82  Character-Sketches. 

their  rhetoric  itself  has,  with  whatever  faults,  such 
superb  and  genuine  qualities — that  we  would  not 
wish  them  retouched.  We  have  known  grave  and 
cultivated  men  to  burst  into  tears  over  his  vindica- 
tion of  the  blind  old  Puritan  bard,  who,  abandoned 
of  the  world,  remained  superior  to  it.  He  did  more 
for  the  right  appreciation  of  Milton  than  any  other 
critic  save  Addison.  In  this  and  other  writings  he 
has  proved  to  Englishmen  that,  while  they  had  in 
Cromwell  the  mightiest  of  their  sovereigns,  and  in  his 
Roundhead  army  the  bravest  of  their  soldiers,  they 
had,  also,  in  his  secretary,  the  sublimest  of  their  poets, 
and  one  of  the  noblest  models  of  British  manhood. 
Other  and  even  more  surprising  papers  than  that 
on  Milton  followed,  all  making  an  impression  never 
before  known  in  English  periodical  literature :  in 
his  twenty-seventh  year  that  on  Macchiavelli,  so 
comprehensive  of  his  epoch,  and  so  decisive  of  the 
old. problem  of  his  "  Prince  ;  "  in  his  twenty-eighth 
year  that  on  Hallam's  "  Constitutional  History," 
so  thorough  on  the  religious  questions  of  the  times 
of  Elizabeth  and  the  Commonwealth,  and  so  ap- 
preciative of  Cromwell  ;  that  on  Southey's  ''  Col- 
loquies," so  able  in  its  discussions  of  political 
economy;  that  on  Croker's  Johnson,  so  remarkable 
for  its  critical  corrections,  and  its  estimate  of  Bos- 
well  and  Johnson  ;  that  on  Bunyan,  in  which  he 
vindicates  the  high  rank  of  the  Bedford  Tinker 
among  English  men  of  genius ;  that  on  Gladstone's 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  83 

"  Church  and  State,"  in  which  he  has  made  out  the 
best  argument  for  reh'gious  liberty  and  for  the  "vol- 
untary principle,"  though  without  propounding — 
perhaps  without  intending  to  propound — the  latter; 
that  on  Ranke's  "  Popes,"  so  thoroughly  apprecia- 
tive of  the  era  of  the  Reformation,  and  of  the  com- 
parative policies  of  Popery  and  Protestantism ;  that 
on  Temple,  in  which  the  notable  "  Phalaris  "  fight 
between  Oxford  and  Bentley,  and  Bentley's  signal 
victory,  are  commemorated  ;  the  two  articles  on 
Clive  and  Warren  Hastings,  so  comprehensive  of 
the  history  and  policy  of  British  India,  and  so 
brilliant  in  their  rhetoric ;  the  masterly  articles  on 
Burleigh,  Hampden,  and  Chatham  ;  those  on  the 
Comic  Dramatists  of  the  Restoration,  on  Byron, 
Walpole's  Letters  to  Sir  Horace  Mann,  Madame 
D'Arblay's  Life  and  Letters,  and  Miss  Aiken's  Life 
and  Writings  of  Addison,  so  full  of  entertaining 
information,  Hterary  gossip  and  criticism ;  and 
the  unrivaled  essay  on  Bacon,  in  w^hich  he  drew 
with  as  much  partiality  as  ability  the  character 
of  the  great  philosopher,  and  made  the  best  state- 
ment of  his  system  ever  given  by  any  of  his  critics. 
The  latter  is  the  largest  and  most  elaborate  of  his 
essays.  It  was  written  in  India,  and  sent  to  the 
'^Edinburgh  "  with  an  apology  for  its  "  interminable 
length."  He  wrote  to  Napier,  Jeffrey's  successor 
in  the  editorial  chair:  "My  opinion  is  formed 
not  at  second  hand,  hkc  those  of  nine  tenths  of  the 


84  Character-Sketches. 

people  who  talk  about  Bacon,  but  after  several  very 
attentive  perusals  of  his  greatest  works,  and  after 
a  good  deal  of  thought.  I  never  bestowed  so 
much  care  on  any  thing  I  have  written.  There  is 
not  a  sentence  in  the  latter  half  of  the  article  which 
has  not  been  repeatedly  recast.  The  trouble  has 
been  so  great  a  pleasure  to  me  that  I  have  been 
greiatly  overpaid." 

Napier  sent  it  to  Jeffrey  for  advice  on  the  pro- 
priety of  dividing  it.  Jeffrey  wrote  back :  "  What 
mortal  could  ever  dream  of  cutting  out  the  least 
particle  of  this  precious  work  to  make  it  better  fit 
in  your  review?  It  would  be  worse  than  paring 
down  the  Pitt  diamond  to  fit  the  old  setting  of  a 
dowager's  ring.  Since  Bacon  himself,  I  do  not 
know  that  there  has  been  any  thing  so  fine.  The 
first  five  or  six  pages  are  in  a  lower  tone,  but  still 
magnificent,  and  not  to  be  deprived  of  a  word." 
It  was  inserted  entire,  filling  a  hundred  and  four 
pages  of  the  review. 

These  essays  excited  so  much  interest  in  America 
that  they  were  first  published  here  in  a  collected 
form.  Copies  of  the  edition  were  sent  over 
"wholesale,"  and  Macaulay  diffidently  consented 
to  prepare  a  new  collected  edition  for  the  English 
market,  in  order  to  protect  Longman,  his  pub- 
lisher, from  the  enterprising  American  house.  Mr. 
Trevelyan  says:  '*  The  world  was  not  slow  to 
welcome,  and,  having  welcomed,  was  not  in  a  hurry 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  85 

to  shelve,  a  book  so  unwillingly  and  unostenta- 
tiously presented  to  its  notice.  Upward  of  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  thousand  copies  have  been  sold 
in  the  United  Kingdom  alone,  by  a  single  publisher. 
Considerably  over  a  hundred  thousand  copies  of 
separate  essays  have  been  printed  in  the  series 
known  as  the  Traveler's  Library.  More  than  six 
thousand  copies  have,  one  year  with  another,  been 
disposed  of  annually.  In  the  United  States,  in 
British  Lidia,  and  on  the  Continent  of  Europe, 
these  productions,  which  their  author  classed  as 
ephemeral,  are  so  greedily  read,  and  so  constantly 
reproduced,  that,  taking  the  world  as  a  whole, 
there  is  probably  never  a  moment  when  they  are 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  compositor." 

Macaulay's  literary  reputation  became  universal 
by  his  essays  alone.  No  other  man  had  ever  won 
equal  fame  by  mere  Review  articles.  They  were  a 
monument  seen  and  read  of  all  cultivated  men 
throughout  the  Anglo-Saxon  world.  But  no  one 
beyond  the  circle  of  his  immediate  friends  sus- 
pected that  he  was  capable  of  success  in  poetry 
till  his  Lays  of  Rome  appeared.  Of  course,  he 
cannot  be  ranked  among  the  great  poets,  any  more 
than  Addison,  Johnson,  Southey,  or  Scott  can  be  so 
ranked  ;  but  had  he  lived  before  Johnson  he  would 
certainly  have  had  a  place  in  the  Lives  of  the 
Poets,  and  a  rank  above  three  fourths  of  John- 
son's characters.    But  if  he  cannot  be  placed  among 


86  Character-Sketches. 

the  gods  in  the  cclla  of  the  temple,  he  is  entitled 
at  least  to  a  prominent  position  among  the  demi- 
gods who  stand  in  its  exterior  niches.  The  rhyth- 
mical instinct  was  inborn  with  him,  and  was  as 
early,  if  not  as  thoroughly,  developed  as  in  Pope. 
Throughout  his  youth  he  could  throw  off  rhymed 
verses,  in  the  sports  of  his  home,  impromptu  and 
without  end.  But  there  is  often  a  fatal  facility  in 
versification,  seducing  the  young  aspirant  from  the 
deeper  things  of  poetry.  It  came  near  spoiling 
Pope  himself.  The  Horatian  lesson  of  delay  and 
labor  can  never  be  disregarded  with  impunity  in 
this  highest  department  of  literary  art.  Macaulay 
was  the  last  man  to  disregard  it,  and  his  ''  Lays," 
therefore,  met  with  immediate  success. 

Niebuhr  had  revived  the  theory  that  most  of  the 
romantic  stories  which  fill  the  first  three  or  four 
books  of  Livy  come  from  lost  ballads  of  the  early 
Romans.  Macaulay  was  no  disciple  of  Niebuhr, 
and  did  not  unqualifiedly  accept  his  historical 
criticisms ;  but  he  was  fully  convinced  of  the  truth 
of  this  theory.  As  a  mere  literary  recreation  he 
attempted,  in  India,  to  restore  some  of  these  long- 
lost  poems;  and  the  "Lays"  sprung  from  the  at- 
tempt, full-winged.  His  friend,  Arnold  of  Rugby, 
a  disciple  of  Niebuhr,  saw  seme  of  them  in  man- 
uscript, after  Macaulay's  return  to  England,  and 
he  wrote  to  their  author  in  such  terms  of  eulogy 
upon  them,  as  to  kindle  his  ambition  for  a  higher 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  87 

literary  fame  than  he  had  yet  attained ;  he  de- 
clined the  importunities  of  Napier  for  new  review 
articles,  and  gave  himself  to  the  correction  and  com- 
pletion of  his  poems.  He  bestowed  the  utmost 
labor  upon  them,  doing  what,  perhaps,  is  the  hard- 
est, though  the  most  indispensable,  task  of  the 
poet — abridging  and  condensing.  He  ruthlessly 
cut  out  scores  of  lines — at  least  thirty  out  of  the 
battle  of  Regillus  alone.  The  ancient  Roman 
ballads  were,  most  probably,  in  the  Saturnian  meter, 
pure  examples  of  which  have  been  preserved  by  the 
grammarians.  It  was  a  proof  of  the  poetic  instinct 
of  Macaulay,  a  proof  which  could  not  but  cheer 
him,  that  his  own  ballads  were,  without  intention, 
very  like  the  Saturnian  meter.  Goethe  had  suc- 
ceeded, in  his  Iphigenia  and  his  Roman  elegies,  in 
reproducing  the  spirit  of  classic  antique  poetry; 
Macaulay,  with  less  poet^  genius,  reproduced  the 
Latin  legends  by  recreating  the  Latin  ballads — re- 
produced them  in  form  and  substance,  as  well  as  in 
spirit ;  not  merely  by  his  meter  and  perfect  detail  of 
facts  and  allusions,  but  by  the  affinities  of  his  own 
robust  nature  with  the  ancient  Roman  energy  and 
heroism. 

He  was  anxious  about  the  success  of  his  new 
venture ;  but,  says  his  biographer,  **  the  little  craft, 
launched  without  noise,  went  bravely  down  the 
wind  of  popular  favor."  We  have  already  seen 
Blackwood's  opinion  of  it.     Wilson   had   been  his 


88  Character-Sketches. 

relentless  literary  and  political  antagonist.  He  had 
sarcastically  described  him  as,  "  twenty  years  ago, 
like  a  burnished  fly,  in  pride  of  May,  bouncing 
through  the  open  window  of  Knight's  Maga- 
zine " — a  short-lived  periodical,  to  which  he  had 
been  a  contributor.  He  now  hailed  the  Lays  with 
"a  paean  of  hearty,  unqualified  panegyric."  He 
exclaimed:  ''What!  poetry  from  Macaulay?  Ay, 
and  why  not?  The  House  hushes  itself  to  hear 
him,  even  though  Stanley  is  the  cry.  If  he  be  not 
the  first  of  critics,  (spare  our  blushes!)  who  is? 
Name  the  young  poet  who  could  have  written  the 
Armada.  The  young  poets  all  want  fire ;  Macau- 
lay  is  full  of  fire.  The  young  poets  are  somewhat 
weakly  ;  he  is  strong.  The  young  poets  are  rather 
ignorant ;  his  knowledge  is  great.  The  young 
poets  mumble  books ;  he  devours  them.  The 
young  poets  dally  with  their  subject ;  he  strikes  its 
heart.  The  young  poets  are  still  their  own  heroes  ; 
he  sees  but  the  chiefs  he  celebrates.  The  young 
poets  weave  dreams  with  shadows  transitory  as 
clouds,  without  substance ;  he  builds  realities  last- 
ing as  rocks.  The  young  poets  steal  from  all  and 
sundry,  and  deny  their  theft ;  he  robs  in  the  face  of 
day.     Whom  ?     Homer !  " 

For  twenty  years  editions  of  the  Lays,  averag- 
ing two  thousand  copies  a  year,  have  been  sold, 
and  by  the  spring  of  1875  upward  of  a  hundred 
thousand  had  been  issued.     They  were  received  by 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  89 

the  public  not  only  as  an  example  of  his  versatility, 
but  as  a  work  of  genuine  art. 

He  had  a  loftier  ambition,  and  is  to  be  immortal 
chiefly  as  an  historian.  He  was  not  unconscious 
of  his  powers  for  his  historical  task.  Many  of 
his  essays  had  been  historical  studies;  more  es- 
pecially, studies  in  historical  biography.  Their  suc- 
cess could  be  taken  as  a  presage  of  the  success  of 
his  higher  undertaking.  He  had  reason,  however, 
for  diffidence.  The  English  historians  were  pre- 
eminent. They  were  at  the  head  of  the  artistic 
historians  of  modern  literature ;  and  history  has 
its  artistic  properties  not  less  than  the  epic  or  the 
drama.  The  Germans  excelled  in  research,  but  were 
heavy  by  the  very  masses  of  their  materiale,  and 
the  drudgery,  the  tameness,  of  their  workmanship. 
The  French  were  mostly  dramatists  and  rhetoricians 
in  historical  writing,  with  an  occasional  exception, 
like  Guizot,  whose  philosophy  of  history  excluded 
most  of  its  artistic  qualities.  The  English,  with 
Gibbon  at  their  head,  who,  notwithstanding  his 
defects,  stands  imperially  supreme  over  all  modern 
historians,  had  shown  a  special  genius  for  the  art. 
There  were  many  giants,  if  not  many  artists,  among 
them — Gibbon,  Clarendon,  Hume,  Robertson,  Lin- 
gard,  Thirlwall,  Grote,  Arnold,  Milman,  Hallam, 
not  to  speak  of  Alison,  Russell,  Stanhope,  and  a 
host  of  others.  It  required  not  only  ability,  but 
courage  to  step  into  the  ranks  of  such  men.     Amofig 


go  Character-Sketches. 

good  ordinary  writers  Macaulay  could  be  certain  of 
pre-eminence,  but  it  might  be  otherwise  among  the 
giants.  Swift's  GulHver  among  the  LiHputians 
found  that  the  emperor  was  taller  by  about  the 
breadth  of  his  finger-nail  than  any  of  his  court,  a  su- 
periority "  enough  to  strike  awe  into  the  beholders." 
But  it  required  other  proportions  for  distinction 
among  the  men  of  Brobdignag.  Hume  had  written 
English  history  as  a  Jacobite,  Lingard  as  a  Roman 
Catholic ;  Macaulay  wrote  it  as  a  Whig,  believing 
that  the  doctrines  of  British  Whig  politics  are  the 
fundamental  ideas  of  modern  civilization  and 
progress.  How  he  succeeded  we  need  not  here  re- 
count; the  whole  Anglo-Saxon  world  has  said  it. 
It  can  hardly  be  questioned  that  his  History,  with 
whatever  faults,  has  done  more  to  promote  Whig 
principles  than  any  other  contemporaneous  agency. 
There  was  no  great  reform  in  English  politics  in 
which  he  was  not  a  representative  statesman,  down 
to  his  last  year;  his  History  is,  and  will  be  for  indefi- 
nite time,  an  oriflamme  in  front  of  the  onward  move- 
ment of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  Hume  will  always 
be  read  for  his  entertaining  manner,  the  ease  and 
felicity  of  his  style,  in  spite  of  his  Scottisms ;  Lin- 
gard, whose  ability  Macaulay  acknowledged  in  his 
article  on  Temple,  will  always  be  valuable  for  his 
research,  and  for  his  qualification  of  religious  prej- 
udices in  English  historical  literature ;  Macaulay 
will  always  be  read,  not  only  for  his  brilliant  style, 


Macaulay — Literary  Life. 


91 


but  for  his  love  of  liberty  and  humanity,  for  his 
characteristic  portraiture,  for  his  dramatic  power, 
and  for  his  thorough  mastery  of  nearly  every  thing 
pertaining  to  his  task — especially  his  exhaustive 
research,  in  which  he  was  hardly  surpassed  by 
Gibbon  himself.  Lord  Carlisle  wrote  that  "  his  vol- 
umes are  full  of  generous  impulse,  judicial  imparti- 
ality, wide  research,  deep  thought,  picturesque  de- 
scription, and  sustained  eloquence.  Was  iiistory 
ever  better  written?  Guizot  praises  Macaulay." 
Of  '*  his  immense  research,"  said  Buckle,  **  few 
people  are  competent  judges.  I  cannot  refrain 
from  expressing  my  admiration  of  his  unwearied 
diligence,  of  the  consummate  skill  with  which  he 
has  arranged  his  materials,  and  the  noble  love  of 
liberty  which  animates  his  works." 

Taken  as  a  whole,  Macaulay's  work  is  one  of  the 
most  genuine  examples  of  historical  writing  in  our 
literature.  He  did  not  much  esteem  Voltaire's  un- 
veracious  histories  ;  but  Voltaire  was  the  founder 
of  modern  history  as  something  more  than  a  mere 
record  of  kingcraft,  diplomacy  and  war — a  record 
of  national  life — of  laws,  manners,  and  religions. 
Macaulay's  work  is  a  history  of  the  English  people, 
as  well  as  of  their  government ;  and  no  other  writer 
has  so  well  described  them.  We  have  seen  how,  at 
the  close  of  each  volume,  he  renewed  himself  for 
the  next  by  reading  Herodotus,  the  Father  of  histo- 
ry, and  eminently  a  story-teller.    He  p 


^ 


\..^r 


^>    OP    TH:'  N^^ 


93  Character-Sketches. 

Thucydides,  the  Father  of  philosophic  history, 
and  pronounced  him  ''  the  greatest  historian  that 
ever  wrote."  He  was  acquainted  with  every  other 
historical  model  in  ancient  or  modern  literature. 
But,  while  availing  himself  of  these,  he  faithfully 
maintained  the  individuality  of  his  own  genius,  and 
stands  conspicuously  alone  in  historic  literature. 
His  relative  rank  we  need  not  try  to  determine  ; 
that  is  usually  a  fallacious  attempt,  and  a  right 
which  belongs  to  posterity  alone.  But  that  his 
History  will  be  a  permanent  monument  to  his  mem- 
ory, no  man  can  doubt. 

He  knew  the  importance  of  little  things,  of  mi- 
nute data  in  the  illustration  of  the  life  of  a  people — 
the  eccentricities  of  character,  the  sayings  of  great 
men,  the  personal  peculiarities  of  statesmen  and 
kings,  the  characteristic  anecdote,  the  habits  of  the 
common  people :  and,  like  Cromwell  before  the 
painter,  insisted  that  every  feature,  even  to  the 
wart  on  the  face,  should  be  given.  To  him,  George 
Fox's  leathern  breeches,  and  the  veriest  antics  of 
his  honest  fanaticism,  were  essential  indications  in 
the  genesis  of  a  new  form  of  religion.  He  dis- 
dained no  hint  which  a  street  ballad  could  afford 
him.  Having  formed  his  outlines  with  **  consum- 
mate skill,"  as  Buckle  says — the  chronological  skel- 
eton of  the  earlier  historians,  made  up  of  regality, 
diplomacy  and  war — he  filled  it  out,  giving  it  body 
and  living  blood,  by  the  common  facts  of  the  pop- 


MACAULAV— LiTKRAKY  LiFE.  93 

ular  life.  He  feared  not  the  critics,  for  he  knew  they 
would  fall  before  the  verdict  of  the  aggregate  good 
sense  of  the  people.  He  knew  that  critical  pretend- 
ers— "  his  puny  detractors,  unworthy  to  loosen  his 
shoe-latchet,"  as  Buckle  again  says  —  would  dis- 
parage his  facts  and  call  his  style  irrelevantly  fine 
writing  ;  but  to  him  no  facts  indicating  the  real 
life  of  a  people  were  unworthy  of  history ;  and  noth- 
ing worthy  of  history  was  unworthy  of  the  best 
literary  art.  Some  one  said  to  Dr.  Johnson  that  he 
surpassed  all  his  competitors  in  writing  biography. 
"  Sir,"  replied  the  veteran  author,  "  I  believe  that 
is  true ;  the  dogs  don't  know  how  to  write  trifles 
with  dignity." 

As  he  wrote  for  the  people,  though  with  the  most 
conscientious  regard  for  the  art,  the  people  gave  him 
a  recognition  such  as  no  other  historian  has  ever  re- 
ceived. "  Within  three  days  after  the  appearance 
of  the  book,"  says  Mr.  Trevelyan,  "  its  fortune  was 
already  secure.  It  was  greeted  by  an  ebullition  of 
national  pride  and  satisfaction."  Three  competing 
editions  were  quickly  published  in  the  United 
States.  Our  own  Harpers  wrote  him  that  "  no 
work  of  any  kind  has  ever  so  completely  taken  our 
whole  country  by  storm."  Edward  Everett  wrote 
him  that  "  no  book  has  ever  had  such  a  sale  in 
the  United  States,  except  the  Bible,  and  one  or 
two  school-books  of  universal  use."  Tauchnitz,  in 
Germany,  had    sold  ten   thousand  copies,  in   En- 


94  Character-Sketches. 


1 

ourtHJ 


glish,  within  six  months  after  the  third  and  fourt 
volumes  appeared.  Six  rival  translators  were  at 
work,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  turning  it  into 
German.  There  have  been  Danish,  Swedish,  Polish, 
Dutch,  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  Hungarian,  Bohe- 
mian, Russian,  and  even  Persian  versions.  He  had 
said,  '*I  shall  not  be  satisfied  unless  I  produce  some- 
thing which  shall  for  a  few  days  supersede  the  last 
fashionable  novel  on  the  table  of  young  ladies." 
His  biographer  says  that  ''  the  annual  sale  of  the 
History  has  frequently,  since  1857,  surpassed  the 
sale  of  the  fashionable  novel  of  the  current  year." 
"  Within  the  generation  that  have  come  up  since 
the  first  appearance  of  the  work,  upward  of  a  hun- 
dred and  forty  thousand  volumes  will  have  been 
printed  and  sold  within  the  United  Kingdom 
alone."  Twenty-six  thousand  five  hundred  copies 
were  sold  in  ten  weeks.  "  I  should  not  wonder," 
wrote  Macaulay,  *'  if  I  made  twenty  thousand 
pounds  ($100,000)  clear  this  year  by  literature." 
His  publishers  actually  deposited  in  the  bank  for 
him  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  '*  as  part  of  what 
would  be  due  him  in  December"  of  that  year. 
"  What  a  sum,"  he  exclaimed,  "  to  be  gained  by 
one  edition  of  a  book  ! "  At  another  time  he 
speaks  of  receiving  thirty  thousand  dollars  in  a 
single  year.  Longman  could  hardly  keep  pace, 
sometimes,  with  the  demand  for  the  work.  Twen- 
ty-five thousand  copies  of  the   third  volume;  were 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  95 

ordered  before  the  day  of  publication.  The  stock 
at  the  book-binder's  was  insured  for  fifty  thousand 
dollars.  "  The  whole  weight  was  fifty-six  tons  !  " 
**  No  such  edition  was  ever  published  of  any  work 
of  the  same  bulk." 

We  cannot  spare  room  enough  to  speak  of  him 
adequately  as  a  statesman  and  parliamentary  ora- 
tor, for,  as  we  have  intimated,  he  stands  pre-emi- 
nent above  the  majority  of  contemporary  British 
statesmen,  and  would  be  historical  in  this  charac- 
ter, apart  from  his  literary  fame.  It  is  a  proof  of 
the  generous  instincts  of  his  heart  that  he  early 
broke  away  from  the  prejudices  of  his  Tory  educa- 
tion ;  for,  curious  as  the  fact  may  seem,  his  father, 
Zachary  Macaulay,  the  philanthropist,  the  anti- 
slavery  leader,  and  the  editor  of  the  evangelical 
"  Christian  Observer,"  was  inclined  to  Tory  poli- 
tics. Zachary  Macaulay  was  one  of  the  **  good 
men  of  Clapham,"  commemorated  in  Methodist 
history,  as  the  Calvinistic  Methodists  in  the  Low- 
Church  party  of  the  Establishment,  who  had  arisen 
under  the  religious  movement  conducted  by  Wes- 
ley, Whitefield,  and  the  Countess  of  Huntingdon. 
Though  leaders  in  most  of  the  philanthropies  of 
the  day,  these  good  men  were  inclined  to  Tory 
politics  by  their  dread  of  the  Jacobinism  of  the 
French  Revolution,  which  had  considerably  infected 
England.  Macaulay,  while  yet  at  the  university, 
emancipated   himself    from    their    prejudices,    but 


96  Character-Sketches. 

retained  through  life  their  best  political  ideas. 
Though  he  believed,  with  Buckle,  that  expedi- 
ency, or  "  compromise,"  must  be  fundamental  in 
any  successful  administrative  policy,  yet  he  held 
the  boldest  theoretical  political  ethics,  and  fear- 
lessly avowed  his  theories  and  their  consequences. 
The  enduring  English  common  sense  dominated 
in  all  his  speculations ;  and  if  he  believed  that  a 
given  public  evil  should  be  exterminated  root  and 
branch,  yet  he  deemed  it  a  violation  of  not  only 
political  sagacity,  but  of  political  ethics,  to  take  to- 
day, by  assault,  and  by  the  sacrifice  of  thousands 
of  lives,  a  fortress  which  would  have  to  surrender 
at  discretion  to-morrow  ;  and  that  many  a  good 
cause  famously  won  might  have  been  better  won. 
In  other  words,  he  was  a  genuine  statesman.  He 
came  into  public  life,  and  remained  till  his  death, 
an  unwavering  reformer.  He  was  found  at  the  front 
in  the  contest  of  every  great  parliamentary  ques- 
tion of  his  times — the  Antislavery  question,  the 
Reform  bill,  the  India  bill,  the  Franchise  bill,  the 
Factory  bill.  West  India  Apprenticeship,  the  Bal- 
lot, the  Corn  Laws,  Catholic  Emancipation,  Jew- 
ish Disabilities,  Copyright.  He  was  virtually  the 
author  of  the  Copyright  Law,  which  now  protects 
British  authors  and  their  families — the  ''  charter  of 
his  craft  " — after  the  defeats  of  Talfourd  and  Lord 
Mahon  in  the  same  good  cause.  A  speech  of  re- 
markable logic  and   lucidity  rallied  the  House  to 


Macaulay — Literary  Life.  97 

his  position  with  enthusiasm.  Peel  walked  across 
the  Hall,  and  told  him  that  within  twenty  minutes 
his  views  on  the  question  had  been  entirely  al- 
tered ;  and  one  member  after  another  of  the  oppo- 
sition acknowledged  a  similar  change. 

Without  being  precisely  an  orator,  he  was  one 
of  the  most  eloquent  speakers  in  Parliament. 
His  first  public  speech  was  at  a  London  anti- 
slavery  meeting,  in  his  twenty-fourth  year.  He 
was  surrounded  on  the  platform  by  the  good  men 
of  Clapham,  his  anxious  father  among  them. 
The  Edinburgh  Review  spoke  of  the  speech  as 
"  a  display  of  eloquence  so  signal  for  rare  and  ma- 
ture excellence,  that  the  most  practiced  orator  may 
well  admire  how  it  should  have  come  from  one 
who  then,  for  the  first  time,  addressed  a  public  as- 
sembly." "  It  was  hailed  with  a  whirlwind  of 
cheers,"  says  his  biographer.  "  That  was  prob- 
ably the  happiest  hour  of  Zachary  Macaulay's 
life."  When  Wilberforce  rose  to  speak,  he  said 
of  the  father :  *'  My  friend  would  doubtless  will- 
ingly bear  with  all  the  base  falsehoods,  all  the  vile 
calumnies,  all  the  detestable  artifices,  which  have 
been  aimed  against  him  to  render  him  the  victim 
and  martyr  of  our  cause,  for  the  gratification  he 
has  this  day  enjoyed  in  hearing  one  so  dear  to  him 
plead  such  a  cause  in  such  a  manner." 

After  the  first  of  his  Parliamentary  Reform 
speeches  the  Speaker  of  the  House  sent  for  him, 
7 


98  Character-Sketches. 

and  "  told  him  that  in  all  his  prolonged  experience 
he  had  never  seen  the  House  in  such  an  excite- 
ment." Denman,  who  spoke  afterward,  "  said, 
with  universal  acceptance,  that  the  orator's  words 
remained  tingling  in  the  ears  of  all  who  heard 
them,  and  would  last  in  their  memories  as  long  as 
they  should  have  memories  to  employ."  Peel  re- 
marked that  '*  parts  of  the  speech  were  as  beauti- 
ful as  any  thing  I  ever  heard  or  read.  It  reminds 
one  of  the  old  times."  "  The  names  of  Fox, 
Burke,  and  Canning  were,  during  that  evening, 
in  every  body's  mouth,"  says  his  biographer. 
Jeffrey,  who  heard  him  later  on  the  same  subject, 
said  his  speech  "  was  prodigiously  applauded,  and 
I  think  puts  him  at  the  head  of  the  great  speakers, 
if  not  the  great  debaters,  of  the  House."  Mackin- 
tosh wrote  from  the  library  of  the  House,  "  Ma- 
caulay  and  Stanley  have  made  two  of  the  finest 
speeches  ever  spoken  in  Parliament ; "  he  pro- 
nounced them  "  the  chiefs  of  the  next,  or,  rather, 
of  this,  generation."  Lord  Althorp  said  of  one  of 
his  speeches,  that  ''  it  was  the  best  he  had  ever 
heard."  Graham,  Stanley,  and  Russell  made  sim- 
ilar remarks,  and  O'Connell  followed  him  out  of 
the  House  to  *'  pay  him  most  enthusiastic  compli- 
ments." The  "  principal  men  "  on  the  Whig  side 
*'  agreed  that  it  was  the  best  ever  made  since  the 
death  of  Fox."  Of  his  speech  on  the  India  bill 
one  of  the  speakers  said,  "  I  will  venture  to  assert 


Macaulav — Literary  Life.  99 

that    it    has    never    been    exceeded    within   these 
walls." 

It  is  the  uniform  testimony  of  those  who  heard 
him  that  he  owed  nothing  to  the  usual  artifices  of 
the  orator.  He  had  few  gestures  and  little  inflec- 
tion of  the  voice.  "  Vehemence  of  thought,  ve- 
hemence of  language,  vehemence  of  manner,  were 
his  chief  characteristics,"  says  the  "  Daily  News." 
It  was  "  fullness  of  mind,  which  broke  out  in 
many  departments,  that  constituted  him  a  born 
orator."  He  "  plunged  at  once  into  the  heart  of 
the  matter,  and  continued  his  loud,  resounding 
pace  from  beginning  to  end,  without  pause  or 
halt."  "  Macaulay,"  says  another  witness,  "  was 
wonderfully  telling  in  the  House.  Every  sentence 
was  devoured  by  the  listeners." 

Cicero  says  the  orator  should  be  a  good  man, 
for  the  popular  conviction  of  his  integrity  gives 
sevenfold  force  to  all  he  says.  Macaulay 's  unques- 
tionable honesty  made  him  mighty.  He  resigned 
office  in  the  ministry  in  order  to  make,  honorably, 
a  speech  against  a  bill  of  the  Government — a  bill 
of  his  own  party  ;  but  the  cabinet  had  the  good 
sense  not  to  accept  his  resignation.  He  lost  his 
election  in  Edinburgh  rather  than  yield  to  a 
Scotch  religious  prejudice ;  but  his  constituents  be- 
came, in  time,  ashamed  of  their  conduct,  re-elected 
him  with  honors,  and  proudly  kept  him  till  the  in- 
firmities of  his  last  years  compelled  him  to  retire, 


loo  Character-Sketches. 

when  they  took  leave  of  him  with  demonstrations 
of  affection  and  admiration.  Sydney  Smith  said 
that  he  was  absohitely  incorruptible  ;  that  no 
money,  no  title,  ribbon,  or  coronet,  could  change 
him.  His  prejudices  were  strong  and  sometimes 
extreme,  but  they  were  honest  ;  they  shared  the 
strength  and  sincerity  which  characterized  his  in- 
tellect and  his  virtues. 

Pre-eminent  in  so  many  respects,  he  was  al- 
most equally  so  as  a  converser.  Never  in  the 
saloons  of  Paris,  from  the  days  of  Rambouillet 
down  to  ours,  nor  in  the  circles  of  London,  not 
excepting  Johnson's  Club,  with  the  "  great  moral- 
ist," and  Burke,  Reynolds,  and  Goldsmith  around 
its  table,  had  conversational  talent  been  more  a 
social  power  than  during  the  life  of  Macaulay. 
Coleridge,  Charles  Lamb,  Sydney  Smith,  Rogers, 
Mackintosh,  Carlyle,  Brougham,  Milman,  Dickens, 
Thackeray,  and  many  others,  were  his  rivals,  but 
hardly  his  equals,  much  less  his  superiors,  in  the 
table-talk  of  the  metropolis.  If  Coleridge,  with 
his  interminable  monologues,  was  their  oracle  in 
philosophy,  if  Sydney  Smith  and  Charles  Lamb  were 
their  oracles  in  humor,  Macaulay  was  their  supreme 
oracle  in  criticism  and  in  universal  knowledge. 

Crabbe  Robinson,  whose  entertaining  autobiog- 
raphy gives  one  of  the  best  views  of  the  best 
London  society  of  this  period,  alludes  to  Macau- 
lay's  earliest  appearance   in   it,  about  his   twenty- 


Macaulay— Literary  Likk.  ioi 

sixth  year,  and  says:  **  I  had  a  most  interesting 
companion  at  the  table  in  young  Macaulay;  one  of 
the  most  promising  of  the  rising  generation  I  have 
seen  for  a  long  time :  very  eloquent  and  cheerful, 
overflowing  with  words,  and  not  poor  in  thought, 
he  seems  a  correct  as  well  as  a  full  man.  He 
showed  a  minute  knowledge  of  subjects  not  intro- 
duced by  himself.  He  was  a  good  example  of 
Bacon's  well-known  remark  in  all  its  three  particu- 
lars :  '  Reading  maketh  a  full  man,  conference  a 
ready  man,  and  writing  an  exact  man.' "  Lord 
Carlisle's  Journal  gives  many  fine  pictures  of 
Macaulay  at  the  London  symposia.  **  Never,"  he 
says  on  one  occasion,  '*  were  such  torrents  of  good 
talk  as  burst  and  sputtered  over  from  Macaulay  and 
Hallam."  At  a  breakfast  with  Macaulay,  he  says: 
**  The  conversation  ranged  the  world — art,  ancient 
and  modern ;  the  Greek  tragedians ;  character  of 
the  orators.  It  is  a  refreshing  break  in  common- 
place life.     I  stayed  till  past  twelve." 

At  another  time,  "  Macaulay  rather  paradoxical, 
as  he  is  apt  to  be.  The  greatest  wonder  about 
him  is  the  quantity  of  trash  he  remembers.  He 
went  off  at  a  score  with  Lord  Thurlow's  poetry." 
Again,  "  Macaulay's  flow  never  ceased  once  during 
the  four  hours,  but  it  is  never  overbearing."  Again, 
"  On  being  challenged,  he  repeated  the  names  of  the 
owners  of  the  several  carriages  that  went  to  Clar- 
issa's funeral."     Though  never  overbearing,  in  tem- 


I02  Character-Sketches. 

per,  at  least,  yet  in  the  afifluence  of  his  thoughts  he 
was  disposed,  Hke  Coleridge,  to  usurp  the  conver- 
sation. Sydney  Smith,  whom  he  could  usually 
overwhelm,  once  remarked  to  him  with  mock  pa- 
thos, "  Macaulay,  what  a  loss  you  will  suffer  when 
I  die,  having  never  heard  me  converse."  Lord 
Carlisle  describes  a  scene  in  which  Macaulay,  Hal- 
lam,  and  Whewell,  discussing  together  a  grave  eth- 
ical question,  got  so  high,  "  without,  however,  the 
slightest  loss  of  temper,"  that  when  his  lordship 
left  the  table  **  not  one  sentence  could  any  of  them 
finish." 

"  His  appearance  and  bearing,"  says  Mr.  Trevel- 
yan,  "  in  conversation  were  singularly  effective. 
Sitting  bolt  upright,  his  hands  resting  on  the  arms 
of  his  chair  or  folded  over  the  handle  of  his  walk- 
ing-stick, knitting  his  great  eyebrows  if  the  subject 
was  one  which  had  to  be  thought  out  as  he  went 
along,  or  brightening  from  the  forehead  downward 
when  a  burst  of  humor  was  coming,  his  honest 
glance  and  massive  features  suited  well  with  the 
manly,  sagacious  sentiments  which  he  set  forth  in 
his  pleasant,  sonorous  voice,  and  in  his  racy  and 
admirably  intelligible  language." 

But,  brilliant  as  he  was  in  society,  his  absorption 
in  literature  made  his  library  far  more  attractive  to 
him  than  any  dinner  party.  He  at  last  had  a  thor- 
ough distaste  for  the  chance  society  of  a  London 
drawing-room,   and   almost   entirely  abandoned   it, 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  103 

as  he  "  also  relinquished  that  House  of  Commons, 
which  the  first  sentences  of  his  speeches  hushed 
into  silence,  and  the  first  five  minutes  filled  to  over- 
flowing." He  consecrated  his  last  years  to  his  His- 
tory. He  became  a  devotee  of  the  "  literary  life," 
of  which,  as  we  said  in  the  outset,  he  is  one  of  the 
most  admirable  examples  in  English  literary  his- 
tory, and  in  which  we  have  endeavored  chiefly  to 
consider  him.  Finally,  giving  up  politics,  as  well 
as  society,  he  lived  almost  exclusively  in  his  library 
and  the  circle  of  his  immediate  kindred.  He  found 
and  declared  his  genuine  happiness  in  this  literary 
consecration,  for  every  virtue,  as  well  as  every  muse, 
dwelt  with  him  there.  Gibbon  said  that  he  would 
not  exchange  his  enjoyment  of  books  for  the  riches 
of  the  Indies;  Montesquieu  declared  there  was  no 
trouble,  no  chagrin,  he  could  not  get  rid  of  in 
his  library;  Lessing  said  that  if  the  alternatives 
were  offered  him,  by  the  Creator,  to  acquire  knowl- 
edge immediately  by  intuition,  or  in  his  usual  way, 
by  laborious  study,  he  would  choose  the  latter ;  for 
study  is  itself  a  felicity. 

"  Macaulay 's  way  of  life,"  says  Mr.  Trevelyan, 
"  would  have  seemed  solitary  to  others,  but  it  was 
not  to  him.  While  he  had  a  volume  in  his  hands 
he  never  could  be  without"  a  quaint  companion  to 
laugh  with  him  or  to  laugh  at ;  a  counselor  to  suggest 
wise  and  lofty  thoughts,  and  a  friend  with  whom  to 
share  them.      When  he  opened  for  the   tenth  or 


104  Character-Sketches. 

fifteenth  time  some  history,  or  memoir,  or  romance, 
every  incident  and  almost  every  sentence  of  which 
he  had  by  heart,  his  feeling  was  precisely  that 
which  we  experience  on  meeting  an  old  comrade 
whom  we  like  all  the  better  because  we  know  the 
exact  lines  on  which  his  talk  will  run."  He  wrote 
from  India :  "  Books  are  becoming  every  thing  to 
me.  If  I  had  this  moment  my  choice  of  life  I 
would  bury  myself  in  one  of  those  immense  libra- 
ries that  we  saw  together  at  the  universities,  and 
never  pass  a  waking  hour  without  a  book  be- 
fore me." 

He  found,  as  he  said,  that  a  **  book  is  the  best  of 
anodynes  "  for  hours  of  suffering.  A  bibliomaniac 
is  never  a  pessimist.  His  strong  affections  ren- 
dered the  death  of  his  youngest  sister  almost  a 
fatal  blow  to  him.  When  the  sad  news  reached 
him  in  India,  he  wrote:  "That  I  have  not  sunk 
under  this  blow  I  owe  chiefly  to  literature.  What 
a  blessing  it  is  to  love  books  as  I  love  them  ;  to  be 
able  to  converse  with  the  dead,  and  live  among  the 
unreal."  He  wrote  still  later:  "Literature  has 
saved  my  life  and  my  reason.  Even  now  I  dare  not, 
in  the  intervals  of  business,  remain  alone  for  a 
minute  without  a  book  in  my  hand.  I  am  more 
than  half  resolved  to  abandon  politics  and  give 
myself  wholly  to  letters." 

No  man  has  left  us  more  delightful  experiences 
of  the  pleasures  of  literature.      In   his  library  he 


Macaulay— Literary  Like.  105 

could  summon  around  him  the  great  bards,  to 
chant  him  their  immortal  lays;  the  great  histo- 
rians, to  recite  their  narratives ;  the  great  orators, 
to  exhilarate  him  with  their  eloquence  ;  the  great 
novelists,  to  entertain  him  with  their  stories ;  the 
great  travelers,  with  whom  he  could  traverse  the 
world  without  leaving  his  fireside,  and  witness  the 
wonders,  without  sharing  the  perils,  of  their  advent- 
ures. A  good  library  was  to  him  the  best  of 
material  provisions  for  happiness,  and  a  good  au- 
thor the  best  of  companions.  In  his  essay  on 
Bacon  he  eloquently  says :  "  These  friendships  are 
exposed  to  no  danger  from  occurrences  by  which 
other  attachments  are  weakened  or  dissolved. 
Time  glides  on,  fortune  is  inconstant,  tempers  are 
soured,  bonds  which  seemed  indissoluble  are  daily 
sundered  by  interest,  by  emulation,  or  by  caprice  ; 
but  no  such  cause  can  affect  the  silent  converse 
which  we  hold  with  the  highest  of  human  intel- 
lects. The  placid  intercourse  is  disturbed  by  no 
jealousies  or  resentments.  These  are  the  old 
friends  who  are  never  seen  with  new  faces,  who  are 
the  same  in  wealth  and  in  poverty,  in  glory  and  in 
obscurity.  With  the  dead  there  is  no  rivalry;  in 
the  dead  there  is  no  change.  Plato  is  never  sullen, 
Cervantes  is  never  petulant,  Demosthenes  never 
comes  unseasonably,  Dante  never  stays  too  long ; 
no  difference  of  political  opinions  can  ever  alienate 
Cicero,  no  heresy  can  excite  the  horror  of  Bossuet.** 


io6  Character-Sketcpies. 

It  was  befitting  that  such  a  man  should  die  in 
his  study.  "  He  was  found  dead,"  says  his  biog- 
rapher, "  in  his  Hbrary,  seated  in  his  easy-chair, 
and  dressed  as  usual,  with  his  book  on  the  table 
still  open."  He  died  in  his  sixtieth  year,  and  was 
buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  where,  amid  the 
monuments  of  Addison,  Johnson,  Gray,  and  Gold- 
smith, his  tomb  bears  the  inscription,  "  His  body 
is  buried  in  peace,  but  his  name  liveth  for  ever- 
more." 

Such  a  life  can  be  recorded  only  in  emphatic 
terms,  for  its  facts  are  emphatic ;  and,  though  his 
biographer  belonged  to  his  party  and  to  his  kin- 
dred, the  reader  is  not  disposed  to  accuse  him  of 
undue  partiality,  and  demands  no  qualification  of 
the  eulogistic  tone  of  his  narrative.  While  living, 
and  still  more  after  his  death,  Macaulay  was  criti- 
cised, particularly  by  Tory  critics,  as  declamatory, 
exaggerated,  and  even  superficial.  He  never  publicly 
replied  to  such  derogations  ;  he  could  leave  them 
to  the  good  sense  of  his  readers ;  their  occasional 
repetition  in  our  day  cannot  effect  his  reputation. 
He  says  in  his  Journal :  "  Like  other  writers,  I 
swallow  the  praise  and  think  the  blame  absurd. 
But,  in  truth,  I  do  think  that  the  fault-finding  is 
generally  unreasonable,  though  the  book  is,  no 
doubt,  faulty  enough.'*  "  I  often  think  that  an 
extensive  knowledge  of  literary  history  is  of  inesti- 
mable value  to  a  literary  man  !  I  mean  as  respects 


Macaulay— Literary  Life.  107 

the  regulation  of  his  mind,  the  moderating  of  his 
hopes  and  of  his  fears,  and  the  strengthening  of  his 
fortitude.  I  have  had  detractors  enough  to  annoy 
me,  if  I  had  not  known  that  no  writer,  equally  suc- 
cessful with  myself,  has  suffered  so  little  from  de- 
traction ;  and  that  many  writers,  more  deserving 
and  less  successful  than  myself,  have  excited  envy 
which  has  appeared  in  the  form  of  the  most  horri- 
ble calumnies.  The  proper  answer  to  abuse  is  con- 
tempt, to  which  I  am  by  nature  sufficiently  prone ; 
and  contempt  does  not  show  itself  by  contemptuous 
expressions." 


io8  Character-Sketches. 


III. 

KLOPSTOCK  AND  HIS  META — LOVE  AND 
LITERATURE. 

NO  name  in  modern  literature  is  circled  with  a 
purer  halo  than  the  awkward  one  of  Klop- 
stock,  the  German  poet.  He  combined  something 
of  the  genius  of  Milton,  with  the  simplicity  of  child- 
hood, the  affectionateness  of  woman,  and  the  piety 
of  a  saint.  Like  most  Germans  of  genius,  his  great 
original  powers  did  not  dispose  him  to  claim  ex- 
emption from  the  hardest  labors  of  the  student. 
He  was  profoundly  learned,  even  in  the  dryest  of 
sciences — philology ;  and  from  boyhood  till  a  vet- 
eran of  eighty  years,  never  relaxed  his  studious 
habits.  If,  like  most  literary  works  of  his  time,  his 
writings  have  given  way  to  more  modern  produc- 
tions, he  is,  nevertheless,  acknowledged  to  be  the 
founder  of  the  modern  German  poetry,  which  cul- 
minated in  Goethe  and  Schiller.  "  It  was  the  Mes- 
siah of  Klopstock,"  says  Madame  de  Stael,  in  her 
**  Germany,"  ''  that  marked  the  epoch  of  German 
poetry."  There  is  hardly  a  dissent  among  German 
critics,  respecting  this  fact. 

He  was  born  at  Quedlinburg,  July  2,  1724.     His 
childhood  was  spent  under  the  instructions  of  pri- 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  109 

vatc  tutors  and  the  gymnasium.  In  his  sixteenth 
year  he  entered  college,  and  soon  mastered  the 
classic  authors  with  a  success  described  as  '*  per- 
fect." Virgil,  especially,  became  his  favorite,  and 
the  model  of  his  youthful  attempts  in  poetical  com- 
position. 

It  was  at  this  early  period  that  he  conceived,  with 
the  boldness  of  true  genius,  the  high  design  of 
furnishing  his  language  with  a  native  epic.  Ger- 
many had  not  hitherto  produced  such  a  work,  if  we 
except  the  legendary  Nibelungenlied  of  the  thir- 
teenth century.  His  soul  glowed  with  the  hope  of 
being  forever  acknowledged  as  her  first  epic  bard. 
His  enthusiasm  for  Homer  and  Virgil,  his  daily  com- 
panions, kindled  with  increased  ardor  this  noble 
ambition.  If  any  thing  further  was  necessary  to 
determine  his  purpose,  it  was  the  reading  of  a 
Frenchman's  attack  on  the  German  intellect,  charg- 
ing it  with  incapacity  for  poetry — a  charge  quite  as 
applicable  to  the  Gallic  mind  as  to  any  in  Europe. 
Voltaire,  like  Klopstock,  was  ambitious  to  give  his 
country  a  native  epic ;  and  produced  the  abortive 
Henriade. 

There  is  a  sort  of  mixed,  unconscious  self-con- 
fidence and  simplicity  in  true  genius,  that  often 
seems  more  akin  to  weakness  than  to  strength. 
Genius  sees  not  usually  the  magnitude  of  the 
difficulty,  but  it  perceives  the  glory  of  its  pur- 
poses.    Without  calculating  means,  which  appear 


I  lo  Character-Sketches. 

like  matters  of  instinct  or  intuition  to  it,  it  strikes 
forward  at  the  result,  and  from  its  very  courage  de- 
rives a  strength  without  which  it  must  have  failed. 
The  design  of  Klopstock  would  have  hardly  been 
conceived  at  a  more  considerate  age.  But  now  in 
his  boyhood  it  glowed,  a  Promethean  spark  within 
him,  until  it  inflamed  all  his  faculties.  He  im- 
mediately set  himself  to  search  for  a  fitting  theme  ; 
and  after  choosing  and  rejecting  many,  fixed  upon 
Henry  the  First,  the  founder  of  the  freedom  of  his 
native  city,  and  conqueror  of  the  Huns. 

A  profound  element  was  at  work  in  the  develop- 
ing mind  of  the  poet — one  stronger  even  than  his 
genius,  and  which  soon  imbued  his  whole  nature. 
It  was  religion.  The  characteristic  earnestness  of 
the  German  mind— the  basis  at  once  of  its  doubt 
and  its  piety,  according  to  individual  predisposi- 
tions— was  a  marked  trait  of  the  whole  life  of  Klop- 
stock ;  and  while  the  ambition  of  his  boyhood  was 
projecting  a  brilliant  fame,  the  idea  of  a  higher  im- 
mortality dawned  upon  his  mind— the  soul,  God, 
death,  eternity,  became  overpowering  conceptions, 
in  comparison  with  which  all  motives  of  human 
ambition,  all  principles  of  aesthetic  art  or  earthly 
knowledge,  became  lighter  than  vanity.  Henceforth 
he  was  a  consecrated  man.  He  still  felt  the  afflatus 
of  genius  upon  his  spirit,  and  was  more  determined 
than  ever  to  signaHze  his  country  and  his  day  by  a 
great  poem,  which,  as  the  blind  old  Milton  hoped 


KlOPSTOCK  and   his  META.  Ill 

of  his  own,  **  the  world  would  not  willingly  let 
die  :  "  but  God,  not  the  hero  of  barbarous  victories, 
was  to  be  its  theme.  In  an  oration  which  he  de- 
livered about  this  time,  before  his  college,  he  ex- 
presses, after  an  able  dissertation  on  the  condition  of 
German  poetry,  his  views  of  the  character  requisite 
to  the  writer  of  an  epic  poem,  and  exclaims:  "If 
among  our  present  poets  there  may  not  be  one 
who  is  destined  to  distinguish  his  native  country 
with  this  honor,  hasten  to  arise,  O  glorious  day, 
which  shall  bring  such  a  being  to  light  !  May  the 
sun  which  shall  first  behold  him,  approach !  May 
virtue,  and  wisdom,  with  the  celestial  muse,  nurse 
him  with  the  tenderest  care !  May  the  whole  field 
of  nature  be  displayed  before  him,  and  the  whole 
magnificence  of  our  adorable  religion  !  To  him  may 
even  the  range  of  future  ages  be  no  longer  wrapped 
in  impenetrable  darkness  ;  and  by  these  instructors 
may  he  be  rendered  worthy  of  immortal  fame,  and 
of  the  approbation  of  God  himself,  whom,  above  all, 
let  him  celebrate."  These  were  noble  sentiments 
for  a  young  man  but  twenty-one  years  of  age,  a 
time  of  life  when  students  in  Germany  pride  them- 
selves most  on  their  achievements  over  the  wassail 
bowl,  or  on  the  audacity  of  their  skepticism. 

The  change  in  the  project  of  his  poem  was  not  a 
little  owing  to  Milton,  whom  he  read  in  Bodmer's 
translation.  In  a  letter  which  he  afterward  ad- 
dressed to  Bodmer,  he  gives  us  the  following  glimpse 


112  Character-Sketches. 

at  the  early  workings  of  his  mind  on  the  subject: 
'*  When  yet  a  boy,  reading  Homer  and  Virgil,  and 
enraged  at  the  German  commentators,  your  criti- 
cisms and  Breitinger's  came  into  my  hands.  Hav- 
ing once  read,  or  rather  devoured  them,  they  were 
always  at  my  left  hand,  to  be  continually  turned 
over,  while  Homer  and  Virgil  were  at  my  right. 
How  often  I  then  wished,  and  still  wish,  for  your 
proposed  treatise  on  the  Sublime !  But  Milton, 
(whom,  perhaps,  I  should  too  late  have  seen,  if  you 
had  not  translated  him,)  when  accidently  he  fell 
into  my  hand,  blew  up  at  once  the  fire  which  had 
been  kindled  by  Homer,  and  raised  my  soul  to 
heaven  and  the  poetry  of  religion.  Often  did  I 
then  behold  the  image  of  an  epic  poet,  such  as  you 
have  described  in  your  critic  poem,  and  I  looked  at 
it,  as  Caesar  on  the  bust  of  Alexander,  in  tears." 

Whatever  influence  Milton's  example  had,  in  giv- 
ing a  religious  direction  to  the  genius  of  the  young 
German,  was  owing  to  a  prior  and  profound  suscep- 
tibility. He  had,  in  his  childhood,  become  so  famil- 
iar with  the  Scriptures,  and  their  poetical  descrip- 
tions "  were,"  says  Bodmer,  *'  so  strongly  impressed 
upon  his  mind,  that  when  the  things  themselves 
came  before  his  eyes,  he  would  often  say  they  were 
not  new  to  him — he  had  already  seen  them  in  the 
Psalms  and  the  prophets.  When  he  approached  to 
manhood,  the  pathetic  passages  took  the  same 
strong  hold  on  his  heart  as  the  glittering  and  mag- 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  113 

nificcnt  images  had  before  taken  on  his  fancy.  A 
])romisc  that  fallen  man   should  find   mercy  drew 

ars  from  his  eyes ;  a  trace  of  the  immortality  of  the 
soul  threw  him  into  a  transport  of  gratitude.  Re- 
ligion did  not  remain  a  mere  speculation  of  the 
brain  ;  it  was  a  clear  view  of  the  greatness  and  glory 
of  the  Messiah  ;  it  was  the  pure  feeling  of  love  and 
grateful  adoration." 

The  subject  finally  chosen  for  his  poem  was  the 
**  Messiah,"  a  name  that  now  ranks  first  in  the  series 
of  great  modern  poems  in  the  German  language. 
After  leaving  college,  in  his  twenty-first  year,  he 
spent  a  few  months  at  the  University  of  Jena.  He 
designed  to  study  theology  there,  but  the  elevation 
of  his  religious  feelings  could  not  accord  with  the 
cold  and  scholastic  subtilties  which  then  formed 
the  theological  attraction  of  the  University.  "  He 
wanted  no  evidence,"  says  one  of  his  biographers, 
"  to  prove  the  truth  of  a  religion  which  had  taken 
entire  possession  of  his  heart,  and  he  could  not  listen 
with  patience  to  the  cavils  of  infidels  or  the  reason- 
ings of  metaphysicians."  Withdrawing  from  the 
dialectic  contentions  of  the  learned  doctors  of  the 
University,  he  consecrated  himself  in  the  stillness 
of  his  studio  to  the  great  mission  of  his  life — the 
epic  of  the  "  Messiah."  He  sketched  the  first  three 
cantos,  and  wrote  them  out  in  prose.  From  the  re- 
tirement of  his  study  he  would  frequently  go  forth 
into  the  rural  neighborhoods  of  Jena,  and,  wander- 


114  Character-Sketches. 

ing  about  in  meditative  walks,  trace  out  in  his  mind 
the  imagery  of  his  poem.  In  one  of  these  walks, 
after  several  trials  at  other  meters,  he  resolved  to 
adopt  that  of  the  great  epics  of  antiquity.  He  im- 
mediately transformed  one  of  his  pages  into  hexam- 
eters, and  continued  the  composition  in  this  meas- 
ure— the  first  successful  experiment  of  that  versifi- 
cation in  the  German  language. 

In  his  twenty-second  year  he  left  Jena  for  the 
University  of  Leipsic,  carrying  with  him  the  first 
three  books  of  his  poem.  Here  he  became  a 
member  of  a  small  literary  society,  of  which  his 
friends,  Schmidt,  Cramer,  Gartner,  Schlegel,  Gie- 
secke,  Zachariae,  Gellert,  and  Rabener,  were  the 
chief  supporters.  His  cantos  were  shown  to  a  few 
of  these  friends,  and  excited  so  much  interest,  that 
others  were  intent  on  seeing  them  ;  and  at  last  they 
were  seized,  by  a  species  of  violence,  and  read  aloud 
in  his  own  chamber.  They  were  afterward  pub- 
lished in  '*  The  Bremen  Contributions,"  a  periodical 
conducted  by  the  society. 

In  his  twenty-fourth  year  he  left  Jena,  and  re- 
tired into  a  secluded  life,  at  Langensalze,  where  he 
had  charge  of  the  education  of  a  friend's  children. 
But  while  in  this  retreat,  "  his  Messiah,"  says  his 
biographer,  "  excited  such  a  degree  of  attention  as 
no  other  book  had  ever  awakened  in  Germany. 
Friends  and  enemies,  admirers  and  critics,  appeared 
on  all  hands.     Young  preachers  quoted  it  in  the 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  115 

pulpit,  and  Christians  loved  to  read  it  as  a  book 
which  afforded  thenn,  amid  the  rage  of  controversy, 
some  scope  for  devout  feeling.  By  a.  class  of  di- 
vines it  was  condemned  as  a  presumptuous  fiction  ; 
and  the  partisans  of  the  grammarian  Gottsched 
raised  still  greater  clamors  against  the  work,  on  ac- 
count of  its  language ;  while  the  Swiss  critics,  on 
the  other  hand,  extolled  it  to  the  greatest  degree. 
Bodmcr,  the  translator  of  Milton,  in  particular,  em- 
braced the  cause  of  the  German  epic  bard  with  en- 
thusiastic ardor,  and  contributed  greatly  to  the 
celebrity  of  the  poem." 

Though  but  three  cantos  were  yet  published,  and 
tliey  only  in  a  periodical  magazine,  Klopstock  had 
at  once,  and  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  achieved  an 
immortal  fame.  He  was  recognized  as  the  Milton 
of  his  country;  the  charge  against  the  German 
mind,  of  incapacity  for  high  poetic  excellence,  was 
refuted ;  his  name  was  forever  to  stand  first  in  the 
list  of  great  modern  German  bards.  "  He  idealized 
the  German  character,"  says  a  critic,  "  as  no  other 
one  has  ever  done — he  created  for  the. Germans  a 
new,  strong,  free,  and  genuine  poetic  language ; " 
and  an  illuminated  path  was  now  opened  for  that 
series  of  splendid  native  poets  who  soon  began  to 
follow  him — Goethe,  Wieland,  Schiller,  etc. 

Meanwhile  how  did  the  young  bard  bear  his  suc- 
cesses? **  Poetry,"  another  German  has  said,  "is 
like  the  pearl  in  the  oyster — a  painful  disease  ; " 


ii6  Character-Sketches. 

and  the  precious  formations  of  genius  are  often 
abstracted  out  of  the  Hfe-energy  of  the  bard.  He 
wins  the  perpetuity  of  fame ;  but  it  is  not  un- 
frequently  like  the  preservation  of  the  golden- 
winged  insect,  petrified  in  amber.  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Byron,  under  the  soft  skies' of  Italy,  moving  with 
souls  of  fire  amid  its  desolate  memories  and  passion- 
ate influences,  were  less  happy  than  the  lazzaroni, 
lounging  away  their  lives  in  indolence.  Klopstock 
was  of  a  healthy  mental  constitution,  though  his 
mind  was  incandescent,  if  we  may  so  speak,  with 
the  fire  of  genius  and  the  glow  of  ardent  sympa- 
thies. Even  in  hoary  age  his  friends  called  him 
**  the  forever  youthful."  Still,  at  this  period  of  his 
success  and  young  life,  a  profound  consciousness 
of  the  emptiness  of  even  the  purest  fame  oppressed 
him  ;  his  heart  clung  with  conscious  dependence 
to  the  hopes  of  religion,  the  affection  of  friends, 
and  longed  for  the  sympathy  of  woman's  love. 
While  the  first  sensation  produced  by  the  disclos- 
ure of  his  genius  was  spreading  through  Europe, 
and  critics  were  wrangling  in  conflicting  specula- 
tions on  the  new  sign  in  the  heavens,  which  had 
shone  out  upon  them  with  the  suddenness  and 
splendor  of  a  comet,  he  continued  buried  in  his 
retirement  at  Langensalze  '*  in  deep  melancholy," 
silent  and  indifferent  to  the  critical  clamors 
around  him,  writing  pathetic  odes,  and  cherishing 
the  sadness  of  his  thoughts.      His  friend   Cramer 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  117 

alludes  to  this  period  of  his  history  when  he  re- 
marks: "  I  could  wish  to.  know  from  what  causes  it 
arises,  that,  in  many  persons  who  are  remarkable 
for  sensibility  and  strong  powers  of  imagination, 
precisely  at  that  period  when  the  body  is  in  its 
greatest  vigor,  and  the  animal  spirits  are  the  most 
lively — when  the  prospect  of  all  the  delights  of 
honor  and  friendship  is  the  most  fair  and  blooming, 
and  when  the  termination  of  these  enjoyments  ap- 
pears  at  the  greatest  distance — that  period  is,  nev- 
ertheless, frequently  the  time  of  melancholy  reflec- 
tions, of  familiarity  with  the  grave,  and  habitual 
contemplation  of  death.  This  *  youth  forever,' 
whose  age  even  now  shines  with  all  the  brightness 
of  a  fine  spring  morning,  and  who,  with  the  well- 
regulated  disposition  of  a  wise  man,  his  brow  never 
clouded  with  melancholy  or  ill-humor,  gathers  all 
the  flowers  of  joy,  was  formerly  wrapped  in  the 
mourning  attire  of  Young.  Never  did  he  more  se- 
riously reflect  on  the  instability  of  all  earthly  things, 
or  on  the  importance  of  eternity.  Many  times  did 
he  then  dip  his  pencil  in  the  darkest  colors,  while 
on  the  richest  and  most  beautiful  night-pieces  he 
painted — death.** 

But  a  new  and  brighter  epoch  was  at  hand  in  the 
young  poet's  life — literary  success,  royal  patronage, 
precious  friendships,  and,  above  all,  the  smiles  and 
affections  of  love  were  about  to  irradiate  his  career. 
His  subsequent  history  exhibits  one  of  the  finest 


ii8  Character-Sketches. 

pictures  of  married  life  on  record ;  and  it  is  more  in 
reference  to  this  than  to  his  Hterary  claims  that  we 
have  introduced  him  to  our  readers.  The  farther 
outlines  of  his  Hfe  will  be  chiefly  in  delineation  of 
another  character — his  "angelic  Meta,"  made  im- 
mortal in  his  poetry  and  his  biography.  His  ac- 
quaintance with  her  was  preceded  by  a  transient 
but  vivid  passion  for  another.  Both  cases  afford  a 
biographic  passage  which  is  entitled  to  rank  among 
the  most  significant  examples  of  the  loves  of  the 
poets. 

Tacitus  records  the  respect  of  the  ancient  Ger- 
mans for  woman.  In  the  modern  development  of 
the  German  mind  the  sentiment  is  not  less  strong. 
Its  literature  is  imbued,  not  merely  with  the  gal- 
lantry of  love,  like  that  of  most  other  nations, 
but  the  noble  courtesy  of  the  passion,  which  we 
associate  with  the  age  of  chivalry,  survives  in  it — a 
sort  of  reverence  for  the  sex  which  partakes  some- 
what of  the  religious  sentiment  itself.  The  German 
poet  would  recognize  in  woman  a  nature  distinct 
from  that  of  man.  Her  finer  organization,  quicker 
perceptions  and  insight,  greater  moral  courage  and 
purer  affections,  indicate  to  him  something  preter- 
human, if  not  divine.  She  is  an  angel  to  him,  not 
only  in  the  ideal  affections  of  poetry,  but  often  in 
the  severer  speculations  of  his  philosophy.  Klop- 
stock  was  every  inch  a  German.  Young,  glowing 
with  the  ardor  of  poetical  and  religious  feeling,  the 


KLorsTucK  AND  HIS  Meta.  119 

vision  of  a  beautiful,  "a  tender,  holy  maid,"  as  he 
calls  her,  rose  before  him  in  his  solitude  at  Langen- 
salze;  and  though  the  first  object  of  his  affection 
was  his  own  cousin,  the  sister  of  his  dearest  literary 
friend,  Schmidt,  and,  therefore,  one  with  whom  it 
might  be  supposed  he  was  on  terms  of  sufficient 
familiarity  to  allow  of  the  usual  frankness  and  per- 
siflage of  youthful  courtship,  yet,  with  a  true  Ger- 
man's heart,  he  stands  at  a  distance  and  in  silence, 
loving,  reverencing,  adoring  the  "  holy  maid."  His 
correspondents  are  made  acquainted  with  his  pas- 
sion, but  she  knows  it  not.  Beautiful  odes  to*  her 
come  glowing  from  his  pen,  are  received  by  his  dis- 
tant literary  friends,  find  their  way  into  the  mag- 
azines, and  are  sung  by  maiden  lips  throughout 
Germany,  but  are  unknown  to  her. 

This  ''  heavenly  girl,"  as  he  often  styles  her, 
must  have  possessed  rare  charms  of  both  person 
and  mind.  In  one  of  his  letters  to  Bodmer  he 
says :  "  She  has  a  certain  character  of  beauty  which 
distinguishes  her  from  all  others.  I  can  no  other- 
wise describe  it  to  you,  at  present,  than  by  saying 
that  it  corresponds  with  what  I  have  said  of  her  in 
my  songs."  In  one  of  these  songs  he  describes  her 
as  "young  and  beautiful,"  with  an  "all-powerful, 
all-subduing  look  of  soul,"  which  he  pronounces 
"  an  emanation  of  divinity ;  "  her  "  every  move- 
ment speaks  the  heavenly  temper  of  her  mind  ;  ** 
she  is  "  serene  as  the  unruffled  air,  bright  as  the 


1 20  Character-Sketches. 

dawn,  full  of  simplicity  as  nature's  self,"  etc.  His 
letters,  about  this  period,  incessantly  refer  to  her. 
"  She  is  not  accessible  to  me,"  he  says  to  Bodmer, 
"  nor  likely  to  be  so ;  for  fortune  separates  us  wide- 
ly; yet  without  her  I  am  miserable."  Bodmer 
attempts  to  console  him.  The  poet  replies:  "Your 
letter,  the  consciousness  that  my  love  is  exalted 
and  pure,  and  my  sense  of  religion,  prevent  my  be- 
ing completely  miserable.  She  knows  but  little  of 
my  sentiments,  or  if  she  has  discovered  them,  she 
does  not  let  me  know  it ;  but  she  is  capable  of  feel- 
ing them  all.  How  would  she  feel  your  letter,  if  I 
had  courage  to  read  it  to  her!  and,  if  she  loved  me, 
how  would  she  look  on  me  with  those  eyes  so  full 
of  soul ! "  He  writes  a  sweet  ode  to  her,  but,  in- 
stead of  presenting  it,  sends  it  away  to  his  friend 
in  Switzerland,  remarking,  "  She  who  could  best 
reward  it  has  not  seen  it,  so  timid  does  her  appa- 
rent insensibility  make  me  ;  "  but  beneath  this  ode 
are  sent,  also,  some  lines  from  the  manuscript  of 
the  Messiah,  rendered  notable  and  endeared  to  him 
because  his  "beloved  critic"  made  him  "read  them 
several  times  over  to  her."  "  O !  "  he  exclaims, 
"  how  has  this  heavenly  maiden  captivated  my 
whole  soul !  Without  her  I  should  be  as  unhappy 
as  I  am  capable  of  being."  Bodmer,  fearing  that 
the  violence  of  his  feelings  might  affect  his  health 
and  the  progress  of  his  "  Messiah,"  writes  a  letter 
to  her,  directed  to  the  care  of  the  poet ;  but  he 


KLOPSTOCK  and   his   MeTA.  121 

could  not  present  it.  "  Much  as  it  delighted  me," 
he  says,  "  much  as  I  wished  to  be  able  to  give  it  to 
her,  and  much  as  she  herself  would  have  prized  it, 
I  had  not  courage." 

A  critic  wrote  an  Italian  review  of  his  **  Messiah." 
"  Love,"  he  writes,  "  bids  me  beg  of  you  to  send 
me  the  Italian  review  while  I  remain  here.  Per- 
haps-the  divine  maiden  may  smile  upon  these  tro- 
phies." And  again  he  writes,  "  I  cannot  deny  that 
I  am  sometimes  astonished  at  the  degree  of  ten- 
derness that  I  feel  for  this  angelic  woman."  Her 
occasional  commendations  of  his  writings  fill  him 
with  rapture.  He  observes,  with  deep  emotion, 
that  she  smiles  with  pleasure  when  she  hears 
him  praised,  and  his  heart  beats  with  pride  when 
a  remark  escapes  her  in  which  he  is  compared  to 
Milton. 

Here  was  love,  beyond  all  doubt ;  and  many  a 
romantic  dolt,  under  similar  circumstances,  would 
consider  himself  in  a  desperate  extremity,  with 
but  one  alternative  —  success  or  suicide.  Our 
poet  felt  profoundly  the  "apparent  insensibility" 
of  the  "  angelic  woman."  **  I  must  await  my 
fate,"  he  says,  **  though  I  have  never  found  any 
thing  more  difficult."  But  he  found  support  in 
his  religious  principles.  "  What  peace  I  have 
hitherto  enjoyed,"  he  writes  to  a  friend,  "  has 
been  chiefly  the  consequence  of  the  following 
thought :  when   by  a  taste  for  virtuous  deeds,  and 


122  Character-Sketches. 

by  some  trifling  good  actions  which  to  us  are  not 
difficult — though  to  the  vulgar  they  appear  so — we 
have  made  a  show  of  appearing  to  be  virtuous,  then 
Providence  seizes  our  whole  heart,  and  puts  this 
great  question  to  us,  Whether  we  will  here,  too, 
submit — whether  we  will  be  virtuous  even  here? 
You  see  that  this  is  a  very  comprehensive  thought; 
but  yet,  when  I  measure  my  love  against  it,  I  won- 
der that  it  has  power  to  support  me." 

Yet  this  support  would  hardly  have  sufficed,  had 
he  not  entertained  some  hopes  of  success.  His 
friend  Schmidt,  brother  to  the  young  lady,  ap- 
proved his  affection,  and  undertook  to  write  to  her 
on  the  subject.  The  poet  himself  ventured,  at  last, 
to  present  her  an  ode.  She  received  it  with  kind- 
ness, with  "  a  little  confusion,  a  slight  blush,  and 
some  almost  tender  looks."  The  perception  of 
women  in  matters  of  love,  is  as  quick  as  intuition. 
She  understood  him ;  but  her  heart,  it  seems,  was 
elsewhere.  She  was  afterward  married  to  another ; 
and  Klopstock,  quite  broken  down,  prepared  to 
retire  to  his  friend  Bodmer,  in  Switzerland,  de- 
claring, "  I  will  love  only  once  in  my  life." 

"  Miserable  !  "  **  Completely  miserable  !"  "  Love 
only  once"  in  thy  life !  This  language  is  not  for 
thee,  thou  great -souled  man;  it  is  the  proper 
speech  only  of  those  who  have  less  brains  than 
heart,  and  who,  thus  failing,  make  life  a  failure, 
and  know  no  better  consummation  for  it  than  the 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  123 

lover's  leap.  Better  things  arc  prepared  for  thee  ; 
thou  art  to  utter  a  hymn  to  all  ages  ;  royalty  is  to 
woo  thee  to  its  palaces,  fame  is  to  applaud  thy  name  ; 
thou  shalt  be  ''den  ewigen  Jungiiug,''  '*the  youth  for- 
ever ;  "  thou  shalt  again  love  and  be  loved.  A  beau- 
tiful soul,  young,  ardent,  and  saintly,  already  loves 
thee.  She  sits  in  her  chamber  at  Hamburg,  weeping 
over  thy  pages.  She  has  read  the  great  poets  of 
Italy,  France,  England,  and  has  found  thee  one  like 
unto  them  in  her  own  noble  tongue.  Thou  shalt  find 
her  an  angel,  such  as  thou  hast  not  seen  in  thy 
holiest   visions ;     she     shall    exalt   thine    ideas   of 

m 

humanity ;  her  presence  shall  sanctify  thy  youth, 
and  her  memory  thine  old  age.  She  shall  love 
thee  with  angelic  affection  ;  she  shall  die  for  thee, 
and  die  blessing  thee. 

"  I  will  love  only  once  in  my  life,"  said  Klop- 
stock, when  he  proposed  to  seek  a  retreat  with  Bod- 
mer  at  Zurich.  But  here  is  another  letter,  written  to 
another  person  some  months  later  :  **  You  are  dearer 
to  me  than  all  who  are  connected  with  me  by  blood 
or  by  friendship,  dearer  to  me  than  all  which  is  dear 
to  me  besides  in  the  creation!  My  sister,  my  friend, 
you  are  mine  by  love,  by  pure  and  holy  love,  which 
Providence — ah,  how  grateful  I  am  for  the  blessing! 
has  made  the  inhabitant  of  my  soul  on  earth.  It 
appears  to  me  that  you  were  born  my  twin  sister 
in  paradise.  At  present,  indeed,  we  are  not  there  ; 
but  we   shall   return   thither.     Since   we   have   so 


124  Character-Sketches. 

much  happiness  here,  what  shall  we  have  there  ? 
My  Meta,  my  forever  beloved,  I  am  entirely  thine!" 

So  much  for  the  sanitary  influence  of  time  on 
the  wounds  of  a  broken  heart,  provided  that  it 
is  accompanied  with  a  tolerable  strength  of  brain. 
Every  man,  as  a  rule,  has  his  own  Eve  some- 
where in  the  world,  and  every  woman  her  Adam. 
If  we  fail  of  the  discovery  in  one  instance,  let 
us  have  patience  and  try  again.  A  little  time 
is  often  of  marvelous  efficacy  in  such  cases.  No 
man  ever  felt  more  romance  than  Klopstock,  and 
no  one  ever  wrote  more  than  Sir  Walter  Scott ;  yet 
the  former,  after  believing  himself  heart-broken 
forever,  found  the  "  twin  sister  of  his  soul,"  and 
lived  and  loved  again ;  and  the  latter,  after  a 
similar  failure  of  first  love,  allied  himself  with 
a  little  French  dame,  lived  a  comfortable  life 
amid  his  children,  his  books,  and  his  dogs  at 
Abbottsford,  and  acknowledged  that,  though  his 
heart  had  been  broken  at  first,  "it  was  hand- 
somely  pieced  the  second  time."  As  he  visited, 
in  a  coasting  pleasure  excursion,  the  locality  where 
his  first  love  used  to  reside,  he  wrote  home  to  his 
family  this  significant  remark,  **  I  have  been  here 
before.     Whew ! " 

Klopstock  went  to  Zurich,  where  he  spent  several 
months  with  his  friend  Bodmer.  His  Messiah  had 
produced  a  profound  impression  in  Switzerland. 
*'  The  people  there,"  says  one   of  his  biographers, 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  125 

"viewed  him  with  a  kind  of  veneration,**  and 
"  much  exertion  was  made  to  induce  him  to  re- 
main ; "  but  more  brilliant  fortunes  awaited  him. 
The  Danish  embassador,  Bernstorff",  had  read,  in 
Paris,  the  first  three  cantos  of  the  Messiah.  .He 
immediately  perceived  the  promise  of  its  author, 
recommended  him  to  the  favorite  minister  of  the 
court  of  Denmark,  and  through  him  to  the  king, 
by  whom  the  poet  was  called  to  reside  at  Copen- 
hagen, on  a  pension  which  rendered  him  independ- 
ent, and  secured  him  leisure  for  the  completion  of 
his  poem. 

It  was  while  on  his  route  to  Copenhagen,  in  the 
twenty-seventh  year  of  his  age,  that  he  met,  for 
the  first  time,  the  "  Meta "  of  his  letters,  the 
"  Cidli  "  of  his  poems — the  "  lovely  and  accom- 
plished Margaretta  Moller,  who  afterward  made 
him  the  happiest  of  men."  This  maiden  was  one 
of  the  purest,  loveliest  beings  that  God  ever  gave  to 
our  world — one  from  whom  we  may  derive  some 
conception  of  the  nature  and  moral  loveliness  of 
angels.  We  hesitate  as  we  approach  the  descrip- 
tion of  her  incomparable  character.  It  is  too  sa- 
cred for  an  unskillful  pen.  We  shall,  however, 
let  her  reveal  it  as  much  as  possible  in  her  own 
words. 

The  character  of  the  German  woman  is  distinct- 
ively peculiar  and  national.  The  very  lowest 
class   of  the  sex  in   Germany  are  what  they  are 


126  Character-Sketches. 

elsewhere  in  Europe — hardy  drudges,  sharing  the 
out-door  toils  of  their  husbands.  But  among  the 
women  of  the  middle  and  higher  classes  are  found 
traits  of  character  not  surpassed  by  those  of  any 
other  nation  of  Europe.  Among  them  are  found, 
of  course,  a  large  class  of  the  superficial  beings  that 
make  up  the  gay  world,  so-called,  and  not  unfre- 
quent  examples  of  the  excess  of  that  ideal  senti- 
mentality which  seems  inherent  in  the  German 
intellect,  and  forms  the  chief  characteristic  of  the 
Countess  Hahn-Hahn's  pictures  of  German  society; 
but  the  prevailing  traits  of  the  German  woman  are 
profound  moral  feeling,  tending  strongly  to  abiding 
love  and  religion  ;  an  affection  that  clings  to  its  first 
romance  through  married  life  ;  a  romantic  interest 
in  literature  and  literary  men,  combined  often  with 
an  extent  of  learning  which  would  entitle  a  man 
to  be  called  a  scholar  in  any  other  country;  a  love 
of  home  comforts  and  endearments,  with  an  unfail- 
ing aptitude  to  provide  them  ;  and  a  strong  feeling 
of  that  love  and  pride  for  their  own  country  which 
Tacitus  ascribes  to  their  ancient  mothers.  The 
French  woman  recognizes  in  love  little  else  than 
its  gallantry;  to  the  English  woman  it  is  a  sober 
affection,  with  its  sober  household  obligations  ;  the 
German  woman  dreams  of  it  as  Wieland  did  of  the 
''Affinity  of  Souls,"  and  better  than  Goethe  dreamed 
of  "Elective  Affinities;"  and  this  dream,  if  such  it 
should    be    called,  lasts    usually   through    her  life, 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  127 

irradiating  its  duties  and  its  sorrows.  "There  is 
hardly  a  German  woman,"  says  a  writer,  '•  from  the 
top  to  the  bottom  of  the  social  ladder,  who  would 
not  consider  it  as  the  greatest  insult  which  could 
be  offered  her,  for  any  one  to  doubt  her  having 
experienced  what  they  call  an  internal  life.  To 
this  peculiarity  may  be  ascribed  the  circumstance 
that  gossip — at  least  of  the  commoner  kind — occu- 
pies a  less  prominent  place  in  the  conversation 
of  German  women  than  in  that  of  the  women 
of  England  or  France.  While  an  English  or  a 
French  woman  will  inform  you  how  much  'Lord 
So-and-so  *  is  in  debt,  or  the  probability  of  *  Cap- 
tain What-ye-call-him '  paying  his  addresses  to 
*  Mademoiselle  Chose,'  a  German  matron  will  treat 
you  to  an  account  of  how  her  husband's  pas- 
sion for  her  first  manifested  itself — how  the  fire, 
after  smoldering  awhile  in  a  sweet  unconsciousness, 
at  last  burst  forth  into  a  mutual  flame.  She  will 
describe  to  you  the  change  which  her  feelings 
underwent  after  her  verlobimg,  (betrothal,)  and 
after  she  became  a  wife  and  mother ;  and  this  with 
the  most  perfect  simplicity,  without  any  intention 
of  exciting  astonishment  or  admiration,  and  proba- 
bly upon  what  an  English  woman  would  consider 
a  very  casual  acquaintance.  It  is  a  subject  which 
interests  her  more  than  any  other;  of  which  she 
is  constantly  thinking,  and  of  which  she  freely 
speaks." 


128  Character-Sketches. 

Margaretta  MoUer  combined  in  herself  the  best 
traits  of  the  German  feminine  character.  She  was 
devout,  learned,  enthusiastic,  confiding,  simple- 
hearted,  and  domestic.  She  corresponded  in  En- 
glish with  Young,  the  poet,  and  Richardson,  the 
author  of  ''  Clarissa."  In  her  letters  to  the  latter 
she  gives,  with  all  the  naive  frankness  of  her  Ger- 
man heart,  an  account  of  her  first  acquaintance 
with  Klopstock.  ''  You  would  know,"  she  says, 
''all  that  concerns  me.  Love,  dear  sir,  is  all  that 
concerns  me,  and  love  is  all  that  I  will  tell  you  in 
this  letter.  In  one  happy  night  I  read  my  hus- 
band's poem  —  the  Messiah.  I  was  extremely 
touched  with  it.  The  next  day  I  asked  one  of  his 
friends  who  was  the  author  of  it ;  and  this  was  the 
first  time  I  heard  Klopstock's  name.  I  believe  I 
fell  immediately  in  love  with  him  ;  at  least,  my 
thoughts  were  ever  filled  with  him  ;  but  I  had  no 
hope  ever  to  see  him,  when,  quite  unexpectedly, 
I  heard  that  he  would  pass  through  Hamburg.  I 
wrote  immediately  to  the  same  friend  to  procure 
me  the  means  of  seeing  the  author  of  the  Messiah. 
He  told  him  that  a  certain  girl  in  Hamburg  wished 
to  see  him,  and  for  a  recommendation,  showed  him 
some  letters,  in  which  I  made  bold  to  criticise  Klop- 
stock's verses.  Klopstock  came,  and  came  to  me. 
This  had  its  effect."  The  German  maiden  lost 
fully  her  heart,  at  this  first  interview,  if  she  had  not 
lost  it  before.     ''After  having  seen  him  two  hours," 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  129 

she  continues,  "  I  was  obliged  to  pass  the  evening 
in  company,  which  had  never  been  so  wearisome 
to  mc  before.  I  could  not  speak — I  could  not  play. 
I  thought  I  saw  nothing  but  Klopstock.  I  saw 
him  the  next  day,  and  .the  following,  and  we  were 
very  seriously  friends ;  but  on  the  fourth  day  he 
departed.  It  was  a  strong  hour,  the  hour  of  his 
departure."  A  correspondence  ensued,  "  during 
which,"  she  says,  "  I  sincerely  believed  my  love  to 
be  friendship.  At  last  Klopstock  said  that  he 
loved,  and  I  started,  as  for  a  wrong  thing."  In 
one  year  after  their  first  interview  the  poet  again 
visited  Hamburg.  "  We  saw  we  were  friends,  wc 
loved,  and  we  believed  that  we  loved,"  writes  the 
frank-hearted  girl;  "and  a  short  time  after,  I  could 
even  tell  Klopstock  that  I  loved.  But  we  were 
obliged  to  part  again,  and  wait  two  years  for  our 
wedding.  My  mother  would  not  let  me  marry  a 
stranger.  At  this  time,  knowing  Klopstock,  she 
loves  him  as  her  own  son,  and  thanks  God  that 
she  has  not  persisted.  We  married,  and  I  am  the 
happiest  wife  in  the  world.  In  a  few  months  it 
will  be  four  years  that  I  have  been  so  happy,  and  I 
still  dote  upon  Klopstock  as  if  he  were  my  bride- 
groom. If  you  knew  my  husband  you  would  not 
wonder.  If  you  knew  his  poem,  I  could  describe 
him  very  briefly,  in  saying  he  is,  in  all  respects, 
what  he  is  as  a  poet.  This  I  can  say  with  all 
wifely  modesty;  but  I  dare  not  speak  of  my  hus- 


I30  Character-Sketches. 

band — I  am  all  raptures  when  I  do  it.  And  as 
happy  as  I  am  in  love,  so  happy  am  I  in  friendship 
—  in  my  affection  for  my  mother,  for  two  elder 
sisters,  and  for  five  other  women.  How  rich  I  am  ! 
Sir,  you  have  willed  that  I  speak  of  myself;  but  I 
fear  that  I  have  done  it  too  much.  Yet  you  see 
how  it  interests  me." 

A  few  letters  between  the  poet  and  his  betrothed 
have  come  to  light.  They  breathe  an  ardent  affec- 
tion sanctified,  by  the  highest  religious  feeling.  On 
the  last  evening  of  the  interview  above  mentioned, 
she  wrote  him  as  follows  :  "  I  must  write  to  you  this 
evening,  and  you  shall  find  my  letter  at  Copenhagen. 
Mysoul  leans  upon  yours.  This  is  the  evening  on 
which  we  read  your  Ode  to  God.  Do  you  remem- 
ber it?  You  will  leave  me,  but  I  shall  again  re- 
ceive you,  and  receive  you  as  your  wife.  Alas ! 
after  another  day,  you  will  be  gone  far,  far  from 
me,  and  it  will  be  long  before  I  shall  see  you  again  ; 
but  I  must  restrain  my  grief;  God  will  be  with  you 
— your  God  and  mine.  I  trust  in  our  gracious  God 
that  he  will  restore  you  to  me  ;  that  he  will  make 
me  happy.  He  knows  that  through  you  I  shall  be 
continually  improving.  He  has  already  bestowed 
upon  us  so  much  happiness  that  I  trust  he  will 
complete  our  felicity.  Begin,  then,  your  journey  ; 
only  let  me  weep ;  I  cannot  help  it.  God  be  with 
you."  After  an  attack  of  illness,  she  wrote  him : 
*'  I  did  not  expect  to  be  ever  again  as  well  as  I  now 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta,  131 

am.  Praised  be  our  God  for  it !  and  you  will  praise 
him  with  me.  Yesterday  evening,  when  I  had  re- 
tired from  company,  and  enjoyed  a  very  delightful 
hour,  I  said  to  myself,  '  Perhaps  my  K.  is  now  wor- 
shiping God  with  me;'  and  at  that  thought  my 
devotions  became  more  fervent.  How  delightful  it 
is  to  address  ourselves  to  God — to  feel  his  influence 
on  our  minds.  Thus  how  happy  may  we  be  even 
in  this  world  !  You  say  rightly,  if  our  happiness  is 
so  great  here,  what  will  it  be  hereafter  ?  And  then 
we  shall  never  be  separated !  Farewell,  my  be- 
loved !  I  shall  think  of  you  continually  to-morrow. 
The  holiest  thoughts  harmonize  with  my  idea  of 
you — of  you  who  are  more  holy  than  I  am — who 
love  our  Creator  not  less  than  I  do — more  I  think 
you  cannot  love  him — not  more,  but  in  a  more 
exalted  manner.  How  happy  am  I  to  belong  to 
you  !  Through  you  I  shall  be  continually  advanc- 
ing in  piety  and  virtue.  I  cannot  express  the  feel- 
ings of  my  heart  on  this  subject ;  but  they  are  very 
different  from  what  they  were  half  a  year  ago. 
Before  I  was  beloved  by  you,  I  dreaded  my  greatest 
happiness  ;  I  was  uneasy  lest  it  should  draw  me 
away  from  God.  How  much  was  I  mistaken !  It 
is  true  that  adversity  leads  us  to  God  ;  but  such 
felicity  as  mine  cannot  withdraw  me  from  Him,  or 
I  could  not  be  worthy  to  enjoy  it.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  brings  me  nearer  to  him.  The  sensi- 
bility, the  gratitude,  the  joy,  all  the  feelings   at- 


132  Character-Sketches. 

tendant  on  happiness,  make  my  devotion  the  more 
fervent." 

The  poet's  ardent  and  devout  heart  responded 
with  similar  language.  Every  despondent  memory 
of  the  disappointment  of  his  former  love  is  gone. 
**  With  what  transport,"  he  exclaimed,  ''  do  I  think 
of  you,  my  Meta,  my  only  treasure,  my  wife ! 
When,  in  fancy,  I  behold  you,  my  mind  is  filled 
with  the  heavenly  thoughts  which  so  often  and  de- 
lightfully occupy  it ;  and  while  I  think  of  you  they 
are  still  more  fervent,  more  delightful.  They  glow 
in  my  breast,  but  no  words  can  express  them. 
With  what  sweet  peace  of  mind  do  I  contemplate, 
in  every  point  of  view,  the  thought  that  you  are 
mine— that  I  am  yours!  O  Meta,  how  entirely 
are  you  formed  to  make  me  happy!  and  you  are 
bestowed  upon  me !  Can  there  be  so  much  happi- 
ness here  below?  Yet,  what  is  the  greatest  earthly 
happiness  to  that  which  we  hope  to  enjoy  in  a 
future  state?     Yes,  my  beloved,  forever!  " 

During  some  three  years  did  this  affectionate 
correspondence  continue.  Klopstock  remembered 
no  more  his  former  resolution,  '*  to  love  but  once 
in  his  life."  All  the  poetical  ardor  of  his  soul  was 
lavished  upon  the  beautiful  and  sweet-hearted  girl ; 
and  she  who  was,  according  to  contemporary  writ- 
ers, "  Klopstock  in  feminine  beauty,"  reciprocated 
his  tenderness  with  an  affection,  admiration,  an 
adoration  even,  next  only  to  that  which  her  devout 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  133 

spirit  paid  to  God  himself.  They  were  married  in 
the  summer  of  1754. 

Having  now  passed  through  the  courtship  of  our 
hero,  we  ought  to  drop  the  pen  in  haste,  accord- 
ing to  the  canons  of  a  certain  cynical  school  of 
writers ;  for  no  love,  according  to  their  philosophy, 
can  long  survive  marriage.  But  the  beauty,  the 
romance  of  the  scene  has  only  dawned  thus  far; 
and  the  further  history  of  Margaretta  Klopstock 
presents  a  picture  of  wedded  love  which  an  angel 
might  gladly  contemplate.  It  is  an  abominable 
perversion,  practised  upon  society  and  against  God, 
that  is  implied  in  much  of  the  modern  light  litera- 
ture, which,  under  the  extravagant  forms  of  the 
novel,  pretends  to  picture  human  life,  and  in  which 
it  seems  a  settled  doctrine,  that  "  the  holy  state  of 
matrimony  "  is,  and  of  necessity  must  be,  a  holy 
state  of  unhappiness — a  tame,  if  not  a  worse  ter- 
mination of  the  young  affections  and  hopes  of  the 
heart.  It  is  assumed  by  even  more  critical  writers 
sometimes,  that  men  and  women  of.  genius,  as,  for 
instance,  Madame  de  Stael,  Mrs.  Hemans,  Mrs. 
Norton,  find  it  an  intolerable  relation ;  and  ex- 
amples of  conjugal  infelicity  are  given  from  Soc- 
rates to  Milton,  and  from  Milton  to  Coleridge. 

Men  of  genius  are  often  the  poorest  possible 
specimens  of  those  fine  ideals  of  character  which 
they  portray.  They  are  irritable,  whimsical,  and 
not   unfrequently  absolutely  lunatic.     It  is  not  to 


134  Character-Sketches. 

be  wondered  at,  therefore,  that  a  relation  involv- 
ing the  most  delicate  sentiments,  the  highest  obli- 
gations, should  be  marred  by  their  infirmities  ;  their 
other  relations  in  society  share  as  often  the  same 
fate.  Still,  literary  biography  abounds  in  examples 
of  wedded  love ;  examples  in  which  some  of  the 
highest  minds  have  shown  the  highest  affection  and 
attained  their  highest  experience  of  life — men  who 
like  Heine,  one  of  Germany's  greatest  scholars  and 
critics,  have  wept  broken-hearted  over  the  graves 
of  their  beloved.  Heine,  in  the  height  of  his  suc- 
cess and  European  reputation,  revisiting  the  tomb 
of  his  "  Theresa,"  who  had  shared  his  early  poverty 
and  struggles,  wrote:  "  Here,  then,  reposes  what  is 
left  of  the  dearest  that  Heaven  gave  me  ;  amid 
the  dust  of  her  four  children  she  sleeps.  I  could 
have  continued  at  her  grave  forever ;  there  where 
it  cheered  me  to  think  that  one  day  I  shall  rest  by 
her  side.  Her  love  was  the  strongest,  truest,  that 
ever  inspired  the  heart  of  woman,  and  made  me 
the  happiest  of  men."  Alluding  to  their  early  com- 
mon sufferings,  he  exclaims,  "When  tears  flowed 
over  our  cheeks,  did  not  a  nameless,  seldom-felt  de- 
light stream  through  my  breast,  oppressed  equally 
by  joy  and  by  sorrow!"  Even  Milton,  though 
driven  by  his  domestic  afflictions  into  sad  heresies 
about  marriage,  knew  how  to  appreciate  its  bless- 
edness, and  has  described  it  with  the  best  beauty 
and  dignity  of  his  verse  : 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  135 

**  Hail,  wedded  love,  mysterious  law,  true  source 
Of  human  offspring,  sole  propriety 
In  paradise,  of  all  things  common  else. 
By  thee  adulterous  love  was  driven  from  men 
Among  the  bestial  herds  to  range  ;  by  thee 
Founded  in  reason,  loyal,  just,  and  pure, 
Relations  dear,  and  all  the  charities 
Of  father,  son,  and  brother,  first  were  known. 
Far  be  it  that  I  should  write  thee  sin  or  blame, 
Or  think  thee  unbefitting  holiest  place, 
,  Perpetual  fountain  of  domestic  sweets. 

•  •  *  •  ♦ 

Here  Love  his  golden  shafts  employs  ;  here  lights 
His  constant  lamp,  and  waves  his  purple  wings  ; 
Reigns  here  and  revels." 

Klopstock  had  all  the  ardor  and  romance  of 
youthful  affection,  as  we  have  seen,  and  few  writers 
have  had  more  of  the  fine  sensitiveness  of  genius 
than  he ;  yet  his  married  Hfe  was  a  picture  of  the 
purest  felicity.  There  are  not  extant  facts  enough, 
respecting  this  part  of  his  history,  to  allow  us  to 
construct  it  into  a  detailed  narrative,  but  we  have 
many  incidental  and  delightful  glimpses  of  it. 

In  her  charming  letters  to  Richardson,  Meta 
shows  an  almost  idolatrous  love  of  her  husband, 
accompanied  with  the  highest  reverence  for  his 
character.  She  speaks  warmly  of  her  friends,  but 
"  in  them  all  finds  much  to  pardon,  except  in 
Klopstock  alone.  He  is  good,  really  good,"  she 
adds — "  in  all  his  actions,  all  the  foldings  of  his 
heart.  I  know  him,  and  sometimes  think  that,  if 
we   knew  others  in   the  same  way,  the  better  we 


136  Character-Sketches. 

should  find  them."  Four  years  after  her  marriage, 
she  exclaims,  "  How  rich  am  I !  "  ''I  am  the  hap- 
piest wife  in  the  world."  "  I  still  dote  upon  Klop- 
stock  as  if  he  were  my  bridegroom."  ''  No  one  of 
my  friends  is  as  happy  as  I  am ;  but  no  one  had 
the  courage  to  marry  as  I  did."  In  another  of  these 
letters  she  affords  us  a  glance  at  their  domestic 
life :  "  It  will  be  a  delightful  occupation  for  me," 
she  says,  **  to  make  you  more  acquainted  with  my 
husband's  poem.  No  one  can  do  it  better  than  I, 
being  the  person  who  knows  the  most  of  that 
which  is  not  published.  I  am  always  present  at 
the  birth  of  the  young  verses,  which  begin  by  frag- 
ments here  and  there  of  a  subject  of  which  his  soul 
is  just  then  filled.  He  has  many  great  fragments 
of  the  whole  work  ready.  You  may  suppose  that 
persons  who  love  as  we  do,  have  no  need  of  two 
rooms ;  we  are  always  in  the  same ;  I  with  my  lit- 
tle work,  still,  only  regarding  my  husband's  sweet 
face,"  which  she  describes  as  expressive,  at  such 
times,  ^*of  all  the  sublimity  of  his  subject,"  and 
often  wet  with  tears  prompted  by  his  inspired  emo- 
tions. These  young  verses,  she  states,  are  read  by 
the  poet  to  her,  ''  he  suffering  my  criticisms." 

The  reader  will  infer  justly  from  this  deference 
of  the  poet  to  the  criticisms  of  his  young  wife,  that 
he  found  in  her  not  only  an  ardent  heart,  but  also 
a  cultivated  mind.  Her  letters  indicate  that  she 
was  familiar  with  at   least   four  modern    tongues. 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  137 

Her  enthusiasm  for  the  "  Messiah,"  which  led  to  her 
introduction  to  and  love  of  Klopstock,  is  proof  of 
her  intelli<^ence  and  discrimination.     Her  published 
writings,  which  are,  besides  her  correspondence,  a 
Dialogue  with   Klopstock   on    Fame,  and    Letters 
from  the  Dead,  are  replete  with  the  noblest  senti- 
ments, and  marked  by  a  discernment,  a  justness  of 
thought,  that  we  should  hardly  have  expected  in 
one  whose  letters  show  such  ardor  of  feeling.     "  I 
earnestly  wish,"   says  Klopstock   after   her  death, 
"  that  I  could  recollect  some  of  her  serious  conver- 
sations with  me,  so  as  to  write  them   down;  for 
what  a  heart  had  she,  and  what  a  quick,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  accurate  understanding !  "       She  else- 
where says  of  her  criticisms  on  the  "  Messiah :  "  "  As 
he  knows  that  I  delight  to  hear  whatever  he  com- 
poses, he  always  reads  it  to  me  immediately,  though 
it  be  often  only  a  few  verses.     He  is  so  far  from 
being  opinionated,  that  on  this  first  reading  I  am  to 
make  my  criticisms,  just  as   they  come   into  my 
head."     The  poet,  in  quoting  these  remarks,  adds, 
"  How  much  do  I  lose  in  her,  even  in  this  respect ! 
How  perfect  was  her  taste — how  exquisitely  fine 
her  feelings!     She  observed  every  thing,   even   to 
the  slightest  turn  of  the  thought.     I  had  only  to 
look  at  her,  and  could  see  in  her  face  when  even  a 
syllable  pleased  or  displeased  her;  and  when  I  led 
her  to  explain  the  reason  of  her  remarks,  no  demon- 
stration could  be  more  true,  more  accurate,  or  more 


138  Character-Sketches. 

appropriate  to  the  subject.  But,  in  general,  this 
gave  us  very  Httle  trouble ;  for  we  understood  each 
other,  when  we  had  scarcely  begun  to  explain  our 
ideas." 

During  the  four  years  of  their  married  life  they 
were  never  separated  except  for  two  months,  which 
were  near  the  close  of  her  life.  Her  letters  to 
Klopstock,  during  this  period  of  absence,  breathe 
all  the  fervor  of  first  love.  They  were  written  un- 
der circumstances  of  much  indisposition  and  anx- 
iety. She  alludes  to  these  circumstances,  with  deli- 
cate but  confiding  naivete,  in  a  letter  to  Richardson 
about  this  time :  "  Have  you  not  guessed,"  she 
asks  him,  "  that  I,  in  summing  up  all  my  happiness, 
and  not  speaking  of  children,  had  none  ?  Yes,  sir, 
this  has  been  my  only  wish  not  gratified  for  these 
four  years ;  I  have  been  more  than  once  unhappy 
with  disappointments ;  but  yet  thanks,  thanks  to 
God,  I  am  in  full  hope  to  be  a  mother  in  Novem- 
ber. The  little  preparations — and  they  are  so  dear 
to  me ! — have  taken  so  much  time  that  I  could  not 
answer  your  letter,  nor  give  you  the  promised 
scenes  of  the  '  Messiah  ; '  this  is  also  the  reason  why 
I  am  still  here,  (in  Hamburg ;)  for  properly  we  dwell 
at  Copenhagen.  Our  stay  here  is  only  a  visit,  but 
a  long  one,  which  we  pay  my  family.  As  I  am  not 
able  to  travel  yet,  my  husband  has  been  obliged  to 
make  a  little  voyage  to  Copenhagen  without  me. 
He  is  yet  absent — a  cloud  over  my  happiness.     He 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  139 

will  soon  return,  but  what  does  that  help?  He  is 
yet  equally  absent.  We  write  each  other  every 
post ;  but  what  are  letters  to  presence  ?  But  I 
will  speak  no  more  of  this  little  cloud  ;  I  will  only 
tell  my  happiness.  But  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I 
rejoice.  A  son  of  my  dear  Klopstock  ;  O,  when 
shall  I  have  him  !  When  I  have  my  husband  and 
my  child  I  will  write  you  more,  if  God  gives  me 
life  and  health.  You  will  think  that  I  will  be  not 
only  a  mother,  but  a  nurse  also  ;  though  the  latter, 
(thank  God  that  the  former  is  not  so  too !)  is  quite 
against  the  fashion  and  good  breeding,  and  though 
no  one  can  think  it  possible  to  be  always  with  the 
child  at  home." 

Familiar  letters,  like  familiar  conversations,  are 
among  the  best,  because  the  least  disguised,  expo- 
nents of  real  character.  Klopstock  himself  pub- 
lished the  letters  written  him  by  his  wife  during 
this  period  of  absence  and  solicitude ;  though 
these  letters  contain  but  few  allusions  to  her  daily 
life,  they  reveal  so  much  of  her  heart  that  we 
must  give  some  fragments  of  them.  In  the  first 
after  his  departure,  dated  August  2,  1758,  she 
writes :  "  Did  you  go  three  times  the  distance  to 
the  post,  only  to  see  me  for  one  minute  more  ?  Do 
not  imagine  I  think  this  a  small  matter.  It  con- 
firms me  in  my  old  suspicion  that  you  love  me  a 
little.  If  you  could  see  me  to-day,  I  know  you 
would  love  me  dearly.     No  one  could  know  by  my 


140  Character-Sketches. 

appearance  that  you  had  left  me.  I  cannot,  indeed, 
banish  the  thought  of  you,  nor  do  I  wish  to  ;  but  I 
can  view  it  in  such  a  light  that  it  does  not  disturb 
me.  Our  God  is  with  you,  and  will  restore  you." 
August  3  :  "  They  waked  me  this  morning  to  give 
me  your  letter,  and  I  got  the  headache  ;  but  that 
pain  was  pleasure.  Yesterday  evening  I  had  some 
obscure  notion  of  a  letter,  but  could  not  imagine 
how  it  should  come.  I  never  thought  of  Schonburg  ; 
but  you  thought  of  it  !  You  could  not  help  writ- 
ing ;  yes,  that  is  natural,  for  you  love."  August  lo: 
*' Where  are  you  now?  Still  in  the  ship,  I  fear. 
Last  night  it  was  very,  very  dark.  I  could  not  help 
being  anxious  about  you  ;  but  it  was  not  such  anx- 
iety as  would  have  been  ingratitude  for  my  great 
happiness  ;  it  was  tenderness,  which  I  can  never 
cease  to  feel.  God  be  with  you,  and  grant  that  I 
may  hear  from  you  on  Tuesday ;  but  even  if  I  should 
not,  I  shall  not  be  so  uneasy  as  to  hurt  my  health. 
I  was  ready  by  eight  o'clock.  O  if  you  had  come 
home  !  How  I  wished  for  you  !  It  is  hard,  very 
hard,  after  having  lived  with  you  to  live  without 
you."  August  15  :  '*  God  be  praised  !  I  have  your 
letter.  O,  what  joy!  What  shall  I  feel  when  I 
have  you  again  !  I  know  not  what  I  write.  I  re- 
ceived your  letter  at  table  ;  I  could  eat  no  more. 
The  tears  started  from  my  eyes,  and  I  went  into 
my  own  room.  I  could  only  thank  God  with 
my  tears ;  but  he  understands  these."     Klopstock 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  141 

replies :  "  My  Meta,  I  know  how  you  think  of  mc. 
I  know  it  by  my  own  feelings.  It  often  comes  so 
strongly  into  my  mind  that  you  are  with  me,  that  I 
am  ready  to  press  you  to  my  heart.  My  only  love, 
what  will  be  the  joy  of  our  meeting !  "  August  24, 
she  writes :  **  I  am  getting  through  all  my  letters, 
all  my  visits,  all  my  employments,  agreeable  or 
disagreeable,  that  when  you  come  I  may  live  for 
you  alone.  Yet  I  will  really,  in  earnest,  gladly  do 
without  you  till  moonlight  comes,  though  I  tremble 
in  every  nerve  when  I  think  of  seeing  you  again." 
Klopstock  answers  September  2 :  "  My  beloved 
Meta,  how  sweet  it  is  to  receive  such  letters  from 
you !  My  confidence  that  God  will  spare  you  to 
me  yet  remains,  though  I  cannot  say  that  now  and 
then  a  cloud  does  not  come  over  it.  There  are 
lighter  and  heavier  hours  of  trial.  These  are  some 
of  the  heaviest.  Let  us  take  care,  my  dear  Meta, 
that  we  resign  ourselves  wholly  to  our  God.  This 
solemn  thought  occupies  me.  What  think  you  of 
writing  on  it  to  each  other,  to  strengthen  us?  O, 
how  my  heart  hangs  on  thine  !  "  Meta  replies,  Sep- 
tember 7,  in  ominous  words :  "  I  shall  indeed  be  in 
continual  misery  if  September  passes  without  your 
return.  I  shall  expect  to  be  confined  and  to  die 
without  you.  This  would  destroy  all  the  peace  of 
which  I  wish  to  tell  you  ;  for,  God  be  praised  !  I 
am  strong  enough  to  speak  of  my  death.  I  have 
omitted  it,  hitherto,  only  on  your  account,  and  I  am 


142  Character-Sketches. 

happy  that  I  need  no  longer  refrain  from  it.  Yet 
let  me  be  as  uneasy  as  I  may,  do  nothing  that  will 
hurt  your  health.  I  ought  not  to  have  told  you  of 
my  fears,  but  I  find  it  as  impossible  in  a  letter,  as 
when  I  am  with  you,  to  conceal  any  thing  which 
presses  on  my  heart.  I  have  left  no  room  to  tell 
you  of  my  peace  and  my  courage,  but  I  will  do  it 
another  time."  Klopstock  answers  her  in  a  letter 
full  of  the  noblest  religious  sentiments :  '*  When 
God  gives  me  grace,"  he  says,  *'to  pursue  these 
ideas,  then,  Meta,  I  am  not  far  from  thee.  He  sur- 
rounds both  thee  and  me.  His  hand  is  over  us. 
God  is  where  you  are  ;  God  is  where  I  am.  He  has 
numbered  the  hairs  of  our  head.  My  soul  is  now 
in  a  state  of  sweet  composure,  though  mixed  with 
some  degree  of  sadness.  O  my  wife,  whom  God 
has  given  me,  be  not  careful,  be  not  careful  of  the 
morrow ! "  A  tender  though  sad  reply  she  sends 
him  :  '*  You  must  not  think  that  I  mean  any  thing 
more  than  that  I  am  as  willing  to  die  as  to  live,  and 
that  I  prepare  myself  for  both — I  am  perfectly  re- 
signed to  either ;  God's  will  be  done.  I  often  won- 
der at  the  indifference  I  feel  on  the  subject  when  1 
am  so  happy  in  this  world.  O  what  is  our  religion  ! 
What  must  that  eternal  state  be  of  which  we  know 
so  little,  while  our  souls  feel  so  much  !  More  than 
a  life  with  you  !  It  does  not  appear  to  me  so  hard 
to  leave  you  and  our  child,  and  I  only  fear  that  I 
may  lose  this  peace  of  mind  again,  though   it  has 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  143 

already  lasted  eight  months.  I  well  know  that  all 
hours  are  not  alike,  and  particularly  the  lasty  since 
death  in  my  situation  must  be  far  from  an  easy  one; 
but  let  the  last  hour  make  no  impression  on  you. 
You  know  too  well  how  much  the  body  then  presses 
down  the  soul.  Let  God  give  what  he  will,  I  shall 
still  be  happy.  A  longer  life  with  you,  or  eternal 
life  with  him !  O  think  where  I  am  going  ;  and, 
as  far  as  sinners  can  judge  of  each  other,  you  may 
be  certain  that  I  go  there;  (the  humble  hopes  of  a 
Christian  cannot  deceive ;)  and  thither  you  will  fol- 
low me — there  we  shall  be  forever  united  by  love. 
It  is  with  the  sweetest  composure  that  I  speak  of 
this.  How  I  thank  you  for  that  kind  permission! 
I  have  done.  I  can  write  of  nothing  else.  I  am  per- 
haps too  serious ;  but  it  is  a  seriousness  mixed  with 
tears  of  joy." 

Premonitions  were  these  of  what  soon  followed ! 
And  yet,  though  painful,  how  admirable  in  their 
womanly  feeling  and  moral  heroism !  But  let 
us  see  more  of  this  pure  and  ardent  spirit  as 
the  catastrophe  comes  on.  Three  days  after  she 
writes :  "  I  hope,  yet  tremble,  for  your  letter 
to-day.  O  take  not  away  my  hope !  Set  off  to- 
morrow. We  have  had  since  yesterday  the  finest 
weather  and  the  best  north-west  wind.  You  will 
come  exactly  with  the  full  moon.  O  set  off!  Do 
not  rob  me  of.  my  hope.  Make  me  not  unhappy. 
Let  this  be  the  last  letter.     O  come ! "     In  three 


144  Character-Sketches. 

days  more  she  writes,  ''  I  know  not  how  I  shall 
feel  when  I  see  you  again.  When  I  think  of  it  I 
am  agitated  as  when  I  think  of  hearing  the  voice 
of  my  child.  Yesterday  I  went  an  airing  for  four 
hours.  I  could  go  no  other  way  than  the  road  to 
Lubeck,  though  I  well  knew  you  could  not  come  so 
soon.  It  was  not  possible  for  me  to  drive  any  other 
way.  Adieu  till  to-morrow.  O  may  the  letter  to- 
morrow tell  me  that  you  have  set  off — that  I  have 
written  this  letter  in  vain !  O  my  only  beloved, 
come,  come,  come!  "  On  September  19,  Klopstock 
writes  that  he  is  about  ready  to  return :  ''  My  soul 
longs  to  see  you  again  ;  but  I  must  not  write  of 
this  at  present ;  it  affects  me  too  much ;  and  I  wish 
to  repress  this  emotion,  because  I  wish  to  wait  with 
composure,  and  submission  for  the  day  of  joy.  Do 
the  same,  my  Meta.  My  hope  that  God  would 
spare  you  was  yesterday  very  strong.  But  I  scarcely 
dare  indulge  this  thought ;  it  affects  me  too  power- 
fully. Our  God  will  order  all  things  according  to 
his  wisdom  and  love.  O  what  true  and  peaceful 
happiness  lies  in  that  thought,  when  we  give  our- 
selves entirely  to  it.  I  press  you  to  my  heart,  my 
Meta." 

Copenhagen,  September  23 :  "  At  length,  my 
Meta,  I  am  in  town,  to  go  on  board.  I  expect 
every  moment  to  be  called.  Our  God  will  conduct 
me.  O  how  I  love  you,  and  how  I  rejoice  at  the 
thought  of  our  meeting!  "    Lubeck,  September  26; 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  145 

*•  I  shall  soon  be  in  your  arms,  my  only  love.  God 
be  praised  for  my  prosperous  voyage !  How  I  re- 
joice that  I  shall  see  you  at  last!  My  Meta,  how 
shall  we  thank  God  for  having  preserved  thee  to 
me,  and  me  to  thee  !  " 

Meta  wrote  him,  on  the  same  day,  one  more 
note,  welcoming  him.  In  about  two  months  after 
its  date  she  was  in  heaven.  The  presentiment  so 
sadly  but  heroically  expressed  in  these  letters  was 
realized.  She  died  at  the  birth  of  her  only  child, 
November  28,  1758.  Amid  the  peculiar  suffer- 
ings of  her  last  hours  her  character  revealed  itself 
in  still  saintHer  loveliness,  if  that,  indeed,  were 
possible.  We  know  few  scenes  in  the  records  of 
death  more  heroic  and  more  affecting.  We  may 
well  bow  our  souls  with  reverence,  as  passes  before 
us  the  scene  in  which  this  angel  of  earth  is  trans- 
figured, through  an  ordeal  of  agony  and  dissolution 
into  an  angel  of  heaven. 

"  Her  sufferings,"  says   Klopstock,  in  a  letter  to 

Cramer,  "  continued  from  Friday  till  Tuesday  after« 

noon,  about  four  o'clock ;  but  they  were  the  most 

violent    from    Monday    evening   about   eight.     On 

Sunday  morning  I  supported  first  myself  and  then 

her,  by  repeating  that,  without  our  Father's  will, 

not  a  hair  of  the  head  could  fall ;  and  more  than 

once  I  repeated  to  her  the  following  lines  from  my 

ode.     Once  I  was  so  much  affected  as  to  be  forced 

to  stop  at  every  line : 
10 


146  Character-Sketches. 

Though  unseen  by  human  eye, 
My  Redeemer  still  is  nigh ; 
He  has  poured  salvation's  light 
Far  within  the  vale  of  night ; 
There  will  God  my  steps  control, 
There  his  presence  bless  my  soul 
Lord,  whate'er  my  sorrows  be. 
Teach  me  still  to  look  to  thee. 


Some  affecting  circumstances  I  must  omit ;  I  will 
tell  you  them  some  other  time.  When  she  had  al- 
ready suffered  greatly,  I  said  to  her  with  much  emo- 
tion, *  The  most  Merciful  is  with  thee.'  I  saw  how 
she  felt.  Perhaps  she  now  first  guessed  that  I 
thought  she  would  die.  I  saw  this  in  her  counte- 
nance. I  afterward  often  told  her — as  often  as  I 
could  go  into  the  room  and  support  the  sight  of  her 
sufferings — how  visibly  the  grace  of  God  was  with 
her.  I  came  in  just  as  she  had  been  bled.  A  light 
having  been  brought  near  on  that  account,  I  saw 
her  face  clearly  for  the  first  time  after  many  hours. 
Ah,  my  Cramer,  the  hue  of  death  was  upon  it !  But 
God,  who  was  so  mightily  with  her,  supported  me 
too  at  the  sight.  She  was  better  after  the  bleeding, 
but  was  soon  worse  again.  I  was  allowed  but  very 
little  time  to  take  leave  of  her.  I  had  some  hopes 
that  I  might  return  for  another  farewell.  I  shall 
never  cease  to  thank  God  for  the  grace  he  gave  me 
at  this  parting.  I  said,  '  I  will  fulfill  my  promise, 
my  Meta,  and  tell  you  that  your  life  is  in  danger 
from  extreme  weakness.'     She  heard  perfectly,  and 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  147 

spoke  without  the  least  difficulty.  I  pronounced  over 
her  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy 
Ghost:  'Now  the  will  of  Him  who  inexpressibly 
supports  thee — his  will  be  done  !  *  *  Let  him  do 
according  to  his  will/  she  said;  *he  will  do  well.' 
She  said  this  in  a  most  expressive  tone  of  joy  and 
confidence.  *  You  have  endured  like  an  angel.  God 
has  been  with  you.  He  will  be  with  you.  His  mighty 
name  be  praised !  The  most  Merciful  will  sup- 
port you.  Were  I  so  wretched  as  not  to  be  a  Chris- 
tian, I  should  now  become  one.*  Something  of  this 
sort,  and  yet  more,  I  said  to  her,  in  a  strong  emo- 
tion of  transport.  *  Be  my  guardian  angel  if  God 
permit.'  '  You  have  been  mine,'  she  said.  *  Be  my 
guardian  angel,*  repeated  I,  *  if  God  permit.'  '  Who 
would  not  be  so  ?  *  said  she.  I  would  have  hastened 
away.  Eliza  [Klopstock's  sister]  said,  *  Give  her 
your  hand  once  more.'  I  did  so,  and  know  not 
whether  I  said  any  thing.  I  hastened  away,  and 
then  went  into  my  own  room  and  prayed.  At  part- 
ing she  said  to  me  very  sweetly,  '  Thou  wilt  follow 
me.'  May  my  end  be  like  thine  !  O  might  I  now 
for  one  moment  weep  on  her  bosom !  for  I  cannot 
refrain  from  tears,  nor  does  God  require  it  of  me." 
Such  is  true  love!  What  romantic  fiction  ever 
surpassed  this? 

Eliza  Schmidt,  (Klopstock's  sister,)  who  loved 
her  tenderly,  was  with  her  during  the  last  hours, 
and  describes  them  in  a  letter  to  Giesecke  as  fol- 


148  Character-Sketches. 

lows :  "  She  endured  her  sufferings  with  fortitude 
and  resignation  seldom  equaled. .  Klopstock,  who 
determined  not  to  leave  her,  could  not  support  it. 
He  went  out  and  came  in  again  all  night  long. 
About  ten  in  the  morning,  from  extreme  fatigue, 
no  doubt,  she  had  some  faintings  ;  but  they  lasted 
only  a  short  time,  and  then  she  came  to  herself 
again.  She  was  always  patient.  She  smiled  on 
Klopstock,  kissed  his  hand,  and  spoke  quite  cheer- 
fully. Now  the  trying  scene  began.  Klopstock 
went  in  and  informed  his  wife  that  her  life  was  in 
danger.  She  answered,  with  perfect  composure, 
*  What  our  God  wills  is  right.'  They  took  leave 
of  each  other,  but  that  I  will  not  describe.  When 
he  was  gone  I  went  to  the  bed  and  said,  '  I  will 
stay  with  you.*  '  God  bless  you  for  it,  my  Eliza  ! ' 
said  she,  and  she  looked  at  me  with  the  calm,  se- 
rene smile  of  an  angel.  She  then  said  to  me,  '  Is 
my  death,  then,  so  near?'  'I  cannot  pronounce 
that,'  I  answered.  *Yes,  my  husband  has  told  me 
all  that  may  happen.  I  know  all.'  *  I  know,  too, 
that  you  are  prepared  for  all.  You  will  die  tran- 
quil and  happy.'  *  O,  God  must  then  forgive  me 
much  ;  but  I  think  of  my  Redeemer,  in  whom  I 
trust.'  At  one  time  she  said,  '  I  do  not  feel  much, 
Eliza  ;  very  little.'  *  O  that  is  well  !  God  will 
soon  help  you.'  *  Yes,  into  heaven'  she  replied. 
Now  she  was  still,  but  appeared  to  feel  pain. 
Soon  after  she  laid  her  head  back  and  said,  '  //  is 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  149 

over !'  and  at  the  same  moment  her  face  became 
so  composed  that  the  change  was  observable  to 
every  one.  A  moment  before  it  expressed  noth- 
ing but  pain,  now  nothing  but  peace.  I  began  to 
pray  in  short  exclamations,  such  as  she  had  taught 
me  ;  and  thus,  after  a  few  minutes,  she  died,  so 
softly,  so  still,  so  calm.  On  Monday  she  was 
buried  with  her  son  in  her  arms.** 

The  same  lady  wrote  to  Klopstock's  mother: 
"  The  night  before  her  death  I  was  alone  with  her. 
She  suffered  much,  but  with  great  composure. 
She  talked  a  good  deal  with  me.  O,  happy  hours 
which  God  gave  me  with  her,  even  then,  though 
deeply  tinged  with  sorrow  !  Among  other  things 
she  said,  *  O,  Eliza,  how  should  I  now  feel  if  I  had 
not  employed  the  whole  nine  months  in  preparing 
for  my  death  !  Now  my  pains  will  not  suffer  me 
to  pray  so  continually,  to  think  so  worthily  of 
God,  as  I  am  at  other  times  accustomed,  and 
would  now  most  wish  to  do.'  "  Klopstock  says, 
to  Giesecke,  that  he  hastened  away  to  Altona 
"  the  evening  after  my  Meta's  death,  after  seeing 
my  dead  son,  but  not  my  wife.  I  dreaded  too 
much  the  return  of  that  image.  Twice  or  thrice 
my  Meta  looked  at  me  without  saying  a  word,  and 
then  to  heaven,  in  such  a  manner  that  it  is  utterly 
impossible  for  me  to  describe  it.  I  understood  her 
perfectly,  I  cannot  tell  you  with  what  a  mingling 
of  sorrow,  of  confidence  in  God,  and  of  certainty 


I50  Character-Sketches. 

that  she  was  dying,  she  looked  from  me  to  heav- 
en. Never,  never — though  often  in  sorrow  and  in 
joy  have  I  looked  up  with  her  to  heaven — never 
did  I  see  her  so.  The  situation  of  a  dying  person 
is  so  singular,  it  seems  to  belong  neither  to  this 
world  nor  to  the  next." 

A  rare,  a  transcendently  beautiful  character  must 
this  young  German  woman  have  possessed,  if  we 
may  judge  from  the  intimations  scattered  through 
the  correspondence  of  Klopstock  and  his  friends. 
Several  of  the  latter,  who  were  among  the  most 
eminent  German  literati  of  that  age,  deplored  her 
death  as  they  would  that  of  an  endeared  sister  or 
daughter.  Frinke  called  her  ''  our  angel,"  and  de- 
clared she  possessed  every  perfection  of  the  woman- 
ly heart.  Johanna  v.  Rahn,  Klopstock's  sister,  says, 
"■  I  loved  her  more  than  if  she  had  been  my  own 
sister."  Giesecke  wept  over  her  as  a  "  departed 
saint."  "  What  a  friend  have  I  myself  lost  in 
her  !  "  he  exclaims  to  Klopstock.  *'  Our  blessed 
sister,"  says  Rahn.  "  Our  sainted  friend ! "  ex- 
claims Cramer.  **  How  much  satisfaction  does  it 
afford  me,"  writes  one  of  her  friends,  "  that  I  have 
enjoyed  an  acquaintance  with  this  heroic  woman !  " 
**  She  was  entirely  formed  for  my  son,"  says  the 
poet's  mother.  *'  She  was  ripe  for  her  birth  into 
the  life  of  an  angel,"  writes  the  linguist  Frinke, 
'*  for  how  happy  was  she  during  the  latter  years  of 
her  life,  and  almost  to  the  hour  of  her  translation ! 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  151 

I  am  certain  that  your  connection  is  one  of  those 
few  whose  duration  must  be  eternal."  "  That  an- 
gel ! "  he  again  exclaims ;  "  how  many  virtuous 
friends  she  had  !  "  **  O,  she  was  all  the  happiness 
of  my  life,"  writes  the  bereaved  poet ;  "  what  have 
I  not  lost  in  losing  her  !  " 

We  attempt  no  explanation  of  her  presentiment 
of  her  fate.  In  her  Letters  from  the  Dead,  writ- 
ten during  her  husband's  absence,  but  which  he 
accidentally  discovered,  is  one  addressed  to  her 
child,  on  the  presumption  that  she  should  die  at 
its  birth. 

Klopstock  mourned  her  during  thirty-three  years 
of  widowed  life.  **  To  the  last,"  says  one  of  his 
biographers,  "  he  loved  to  speak  of  his  Meta, 
and  pleased  himself  by  planting  white  lilies  on  her 
grave."  His  mind  was  fascinated  by  the  memory 
of  this  beloved  woman,  as  with  an  entrancing 
vision ;  and  now  that  the  grave  had  withdrawn 
her  endeared  presence,  he  relieved  the  painful  ab- 
sence by  writing  a  series  of  pathetic  letters  to  her 
departed  spirit.  They  have  been  published.  In 
one  of  them  he  exclaims :  **  Ah,  Meta  !  dost  thou 
not  still  love  me  ?  love  me  so  that  thy  soul, 
though  in  heaven,  longs  for  me?  How  sweet, 
how  inexpressibly  sweet  the  thought  !  Yes,  thou 
art  forever  mine — thou  wert  made  for  me,  my  now 
quite  heavenly  love  !  O  that  it  would  come,  the 
moment  of  our  meeting;  that  moment  full  of  joy 


152  Character-Sketches. 

beyond  expression !  O  that  it  would  come ! " 
Again  he  writes :  "  The  idea  of  thee,  when  thou 
wert  near  death,  at  that  moment  of  thy  great 
strengthening,  often  appears  to  me  much  more  af- 
fecting than  it  was  at  the  moment  I  first  saw  thee. 
I  have  need  of  all  that  is  sweet  and  enchanting  in 
the  thought  of  the  resurrection  and  of  the  almighty 
Awakener,  to  free  myself  from  this  image.  Let 
him  who  knows  not  yet  the  bliss  of  the  resurrec- 
tion, who  has  not  tasted  its  comforts,  let  him  see 
a  friend  or  wife  die,  and  he  will  learn  it." 

Klopstock  continued  his  residence  at  Copenha- 
gen, with  the  patronage  of  the  court,  till  177 1, 
when  he  returned  to  Hamburg.  His  royal  pen- 
sion was,  however,  continued.  The  Margrave  of 
Baden  invited  him  to  Carlsruhe,  and  made  him 
Counselor  in  1775.  In  about  a  year  he  returned 
to  Hamburg,  where  he  finished  his  "  Messiah," 
and  continued  the  remainder  of  his  life.  When 
nearly  seventy  years  of  age  he  married  a  near  rel- 
ative of  his  first  wife,  as  a  companion  of  his  infirm 
age.  "  He  preserved  his  gentle  animation,  his  fer- 
vent piety,  and  admirable  serenity,  till  the  close 
of  his  life,"  says  one  of  his  biographers.  He 
spoke  of  death  with  composure  and  with  joyful 
hope.  When  he  apprehended  its  near  approach  ' 
he  sent  affectionate  messages  to  his  friends,  but 
secluTied  himself  from  them  all,  even  the  nearest 
of  them,  that  he  might  give  himself  wholly  to  the 


Klopstock  and  his  Meta.  153 

solemnity  of  the  last  scene.  In  this  seclusion  ho 
continued  several  weeks,  and  at  last  expired  in  the 
eightieth  year  of  his  life.  During  a  severe  conflict 
with  pain,  he  raised  himself  in  his  bed,  clasped  his 
hands,  and,  lifting  his  eyes  to  heaven,  exclaimed 
with  his  faihng  voice,  "  Can  a  woman  forget  her 
child,  that  she  should  not  have  pity  on  the  fruit 
of  her  womb  ?  Yes,  she  may  forget ;  but  I  will 
not  forget  thee."  He  fell  back  again  upon  his  pil- 
low. The  struggle  was  over.  A  lethargy  spread 
through  his  frame,  and  he  was  no  more.  A  fu- 
neral pageant  "  such  as  Germany  had  never  wit- 
nessed for  any  man  of  letters "  attended  his  re- 
mains to  the  grave,  where  his  dust  now  mingles 
with  that  of  her  whom  he  loved  and  mourned 
through  his  life. 


1 54  Character-Sketches. 


IV. 

MARY  SOMERVILLE — WOMAN  AND  SCIENCE. 

MARY  SOMERVILLE'S  name  is  familiar 
throughout  the  civilized  world  ;  and  her  re- 
markable life,  of  scientific  study  and  success,  has 
often  been  sketched  as  a  demonstration  of  woman's 
capacity  for  the  highest  intellectual  pursuits ;  but 
its  significance  can  hardly  be  exhausted,  and  it  can 
well  bear  repeated  study  as  a  phenomenon  in  the 
history  of  her  sex. 

The  present  century  has  initiated  a  new  era  in  the 
intellectual  life  of  woman.  She  has  not  failed,  in 
other  periods,  to  give  proof  of  literary  capacity; 
but  the  instances,  before  the  present  age,  have  been 
only  occasional,  and  have  appeared,  therefore,  to 
be  exceptional.  In  our  day  women  throng  the 
field  of  the  lighter  kinds  of  literary  labor.  In 
fiction  and  poetry  their  success  is  no  longer  dis- 
putable. In  biography  and  history,  also,  they  have 
been  taking  rank  by  the  side  of  man.  Occasional 
examples,  like  that  of  Mary  Somerville,  show  that 
they  may  aspire  to  the  highest  attainments  of  the 
masculine  intellect,  to  the  loftiest  regions  of  ab- 
stract science.  She  says  :  "  I  was  intensely  ambi- 
tious to  excel  in  something,  for  I  felt,  in  my  own 


Mary  Somerville.  155 

breast,  that  women  were  capable  of  taking  a  higher 
place  in  creation  than  that  assigned  to  them  in  my 
early  days,  which  was  very  low." 

In  several  respects  Mary  Somerville's  success 
should  be  an  example,  a  provocation,  to  the  intel- 
lectual ambition  of  her  sex ;  for  it  is  not  attribut- 
able to  extraordinary  advantages,  or  even  to  ex- 
ceptional circumstances.  Intellectually  she  made 
herself,  by  means  which  are  within  the  reach  of 
most  women  of  the  middle  class  ;  for,  though  of 
*'  gentle  blood,"  practically  she  pertained  to  that 
class  throughout  her  life. 

She  was  born  in  Jedburgh,  Scotland,  December 
26,  1780.  Her  father  was  a  naval  captain,  and, 
therefore,  absent  from  home  most  of  his  time. 
The  family  lived  on  a  restricted  income,  at  Burnt 
Island,  a  small  sea-port  town  on  the  coast  of  Fife, 
immediately  opposite  Edinburgh.  Her  mother  had 
no  special  qualifications  for  the  training  of  such 
an  intellect  as  her  child  subsequently  revealed. 
"  My  mother,"  she  says,  **  taught  me  to  read  the 
Bible,  and  to  say  my  prayers ;  otherwise  she  allowed 
me  to  grow  up  a  wild  creature."  When  between 
eight  and  nine  years  old,  she  did  not  know  how  to 
write,  and  '*  read  very  badly."  She  had  amused 
herself  with  the  Arabian  Nights,  Robinson  Cru- 
soe, and  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Her  father,  re- 
turning from  sea,  and  mortified  at  her  want  of 
progress  during  his  absence,  put  her  to  advanced 


156  Character-Sketches. 

reading,  but  with  slight  advantage.  If  she  was 
not  an  example  of  mental  stupidity  at  this  pe- 
riod of  her  life,  she  certainly  showed  no  kind  of 
mental  precocity.  The  compulsory  reading  of  a 
daily  paper  of  the  *'  Spectator "  was  such  a  task 
"that,"  she  writes  in  her  old  age,  "I  have  never 
since  opened  the  book.  Hume's  History  of  En- 
gland was  also  a  real  penance  to  me.  My  father, 
at  last,  said  to  my  mother,  *  This  kind  of  life  will 
never  do ;  Mary  must  at  least  know  how  to  write 
and  keep  accounts.'  "  So  at  ten  years  of  age  she 
w^as  sent  to  a  boarding-school,  where  it  is  a  wonder 
that  the  small  amount  of  intellect  she  seemed  to 
have  was  not  entirely  stultified  by  the  absurd  dis- 
cipline to  which  she  was  subjected.  "  The  chief 
thing  I  had  to  do,"  she  says,  ''  was  to  learn  by 
heart  a  page  of  Johnson's  Dictionary ;  not  only  to 
spell  the  words,  give  their  parts  of  speech  and 
meaning,  but,  as  an  exercise  of  memory,  to  re- 
member their  order  of  succession."  On  her  return 
home,  after  a  year  of  such  training,  she  was  re- 
proached with  having  *'  cost  so  much  money  in 
vain."  "  My  mother  said  she  would  have  been 
contented  if  I  had  only  learned  to  write  well  and 
keep  accounts,  which  were  all  a  woman  was  ex- 
pected to  know.  I  was  like  a  wild  animal  escaped 
out  of  a  cage."  She  complains  of  even  an  uncom- 
monly defective  memory :  '*  I  could  remember 
neither  names  nor  dates."      Before  she  began  to 


Mary  Somerville.  157 

read  algebra  she  had  to  restudy  arithmetic,  having 
forgotten  much  of  it.  *'  I  never  was  expert  at  ad- 
dition," she  says;  "for  in  summing  up  a  long  col- 
umn of  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  in  the  family 
account-book,  it  seldom  came  out  twice  in  the 
same  way."  In  her  later  studies  she,  of  course, 
used  logarithms  for  the  higher  branches  of  science. 
Here  was  certainly  no  portentous  sign  of  genius, 
nothing  like  that  precocity  which  is  usually  sup- 
posed to  presage  a  great  intellectual  career.  An 
intellectual  prodigy  as  a  woman,  she  was  appa- 
rently below  mediocrity  as  a  child.  The  fact  af- 
fords a  lesson  which  may  well  be  remembered  by 
parents  who  grieve  over  the  supposed  inferiority 
of  their  children. 

It  is  a  curious  question,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
how  such  a  mind  came  at  last  to  be  awakened  to 
higher  aspirations  and  endeavors.  It  was  not  by 
parental  remonstrances  or  compulsory  studies,  nor 
by  any  spasmodic  impulse  from  within  or  from 
without.  It  was  entirely  by  a  slow  and  sponta- 
neous process.  After  her  return  from  school,  **  my 
time,"  she  says,  "  at  Burnt  Island  was  heavy  on 
my  hands.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  my- 
self." She  spent  hours  on  the  sea-shore  collecting 
shells — the  beginning  of  her  knowledge  of  natural 
history.  Her  sea-faring  father  had  a  passion  for 
flowers,  and  brought  home  seeds  and  bulbs  from 
other   parts  of  the  world.      She  soon  shared  his 


158  Character-Sketches. 

taste,  and  turned  the  garden  of  her  home  into  a 
studio — the  beginning  of  her  knowledge  of  botany, 
afterward  appreciated  and  directed  by  CandoUe 
and  similar  savants.  She  found  a  copy  of  Shak- 
speare,  and  the  great  master  inspired  her  with  a 
love  of  higher  and  more  varied  reading  than  she 
had  hitherto  cared  for.  There  were  two  small 
globes  in  the  house  ;  they  excited  her  curiosity, 
and  she  learned  their  use  from  the  village  school- 
master, an  evening  guest  in  the  family.  They 
were  the  beginning  of  the  studies  which  culmi- 
nated in  her  immortal  works,  *'  The  Mechanism 
of  the  Heavens,"  and  the  '^  Physical  Geography." 
"  My  bedroom,"  she  says,  ''  had  a  window  to  the 
south,  and  a  small  closet  near  had  one  to  the  north. 
At  these  I  spent  many  hours,  studying  the  stars 
by  the  aid  of  the  celestial  globe."  There  was  a 
piano  in  the  house ;  she  entertained  herself  with  it 
until  music  became  a  passion  with  her;  and,  not- 
withstanding her  poor  memory,  she  could  at  last 
''  play  long  pieces  without  the  book."  Nasmyth, 
the  artist,  opened  a  school  at  Edinburgh  for  ladies; 
she  attended  it,  hardly  as  a  student,  more  as  a 
looker-on  or  an  amateur,  but  in  time  became  an 
accomplished  painter.  She  casually  overheard  Na- 
smyth say  to  a  group  of  ladies,  ''  You  should  study 
Euclid's  Elements  of  Geometry,  the  foundation 
not  only  of  perspective,  but  of  astronomy  and  all 
mechanical  science."     Her  curiosity  was  aroused  by 


Mary  Somerville.  159 

the  prospect  of  such  a  range  of  inquiry,  and  she 
became  the  only  woman  in  the  world,  as  La  Place 
aflfirmcd,  who  understood  his  **Mdcaniquc  Celeste." 
Thus  gradually  opened  before  her  the  intellect- 
ual career  in  which  at  last  she  stood  foremost 
of  all  the  women  of  her  age  in  scientific  fame ; 
the  highest  example,  perhaps — certainly  the  high- 
est recorded  example — of  feminine  scholarship  in 
the  history  of  the  world.  But,  we  repeat,  it  was 
without  the  encouragements  or  aids  that  usually 
prompt  youthful  genius;  it  was  in  the  face  of  severe 
discouragements.  Her  love  of  knowledge  soon 
became  an  irrepressible  passion.  **  I  had  to  take 
part  in  the  household  affairs,"  she  writes,  "and  to 
make  and  mend  my  own  clothes.  I  rose  early, 
played  on  the  piano,  and  painted,  during  the  time 
I  could  spare  in  the  daylight  hours ;  but  I  sat  up 
very  late  reading  Euclid.  The  servants,  however, 
told  my  mother,  *  It  is  no  wonder  the  stock  of 
candles  is  soon  exhausted,  for  Miss  Mary  sits  up 
reading  to  a  very  late  hour,*  whereupon  an  order 
was  given  to  take  away  my  candle  as  soon  as  I  was 
in  bed.  I  had,  however,  already  gone  through  the 
first  six  books  of  Euclid,  and  now  I  was  thrown  on 
my  memory,  which  I  exercised  by  beginning  with 
the  first  book,  and  demonstrating  in  my  mind  a 
certain  number  of  problems  every  night,  till  I 
could  nearly  go  through  the  whole.  My  father 
came  home  for  a  short  time,  and,  somehow  or  other, 


i6o  Character-Sketches. 

finding  out  what  I  was  about,  said  to  my  mother, 
*  Reg,  we  must  put  a  stop  to  this,  or  we  shall  have 
Mary  in  a  strait-jacket  some  of  these  days. 
There  was  X.,  who  went  raving  mad  about  the 
longitude.'  " 

There  was  genuine  heroism  in  these  intellect- 
ual struggles  of  a  young  girl  without  sympathy, 
and  without  the  ordinary  facilities  of  study ;  and 
there  is  a  touching  pathos  in  her  allusion  to  her 
surrounding  disadvantages.  She  was  trying,  half 
bewildered,  to  make  out  some  consistent  astro- 
nomical theory  from  Robinson's  Navigation  — 
her  first  book  o(  the  kind,  casually  picked  up 
in  her  home.  "As  I  persevered  in  studying  the 
book  for  a  time,"  she  says,  *'  I  certainly  got  a  dim 
view  of  several  subjects  which  were  useful  to  me 
afterward.  Unfortunately  not  one  of  our  acquaint- 
ances or  relations  knew  any  thing  of  science  or 
natural  history,  nor,  had  they  done  so,  should  I 
have  had  courage  to  ask  any  of  them  a  question, 
for  I  should  have  been  laughed  at.  I  was  often 
very  sad  and  forlorn — not  a  hand  held  out  to  help 
me."  There  was,  nevertheless,  an  unseen,  divine 
hand  held  out  to  her,  as  to  all  who  thus  struggle 
upward,  and  it  lifted  her  at  last  not  only  to,  but 
above,  the  stars  to  which  her  faltering  studies 
aspired. 

In  the  circle  of  her  kindred  she  found  but  one 
generous  mind  which  could  sympathize  with  her. 


Mary  So^ierville.  i6i 

*'  I  spent  four  or  five  hours  daily  at  the  piano," 
she  says ;  "  and,  for  the  sake  of  having  something 
to  do,  I  taught  myself  Latin  enough,  from  such 
books  as  we  had,  to  read  Caesar's  Commentaries. 
I  went  that  summer  on  a  visit  to  my  aunt  at 
Jedburgh,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I 
met  in  my  uncle,  Dr.  Somerville,  a  friend  who  ap- 
proved of  my  taste  for  knowledge.  During  long 
walks  with  him  in  the  early  mornings  he  was  so . 
kind  that  I  had  the  courage  to  tell  him  I  had  been 
trying  to  learn  Latin,  but  feared  it  was  in  vain  ;  for 
my  brother  and  other  boys,  superior  to  me  in  tal- 
ent, and  with  every  assistance,  spent  years  in  learn- 
ing it.  He  assured  me,  on  the  contrary,  that  in 
ancient  times  many  women — some  of  them  of  the 
highest  rank  in  England — had  been  very  elegant 
scholars,  and  that  he  would  read  Virgil  with  me  if 
I  would  come  to  his  study  for  an  hour  or  two 
every  morning  before  breakfast,  which  I  gladly 
did.  I  never  was  happier  in  my  life  than  during 
the  months  I  spent  at  Jedburgh." 

She  was  beautiful  in  person  as  well  as  in  mind ; 
"  extremely  pretty "  in  her  young  womanhood, 
with  **  a  delicate  beauty  both  of  face  and  figure," 
and  was  called  the  "  Rose  of  Jedburgh."  She  was, 
therefore,  not  without  early  suitors,  and  in  1804 
was  married  to  her  cousin,  Samuel  Greig.  They 
resided  for  some  years  in  London,  but  she  had  few 

opportunities  to  avail  herself  of  its  advantages  for 
11 


1 63  Charact]|r-Sketches. 

her  favorite  studies.  Her  life  was  still  a  quiet, 
patient  struggle  for  knowledge  under  difficulties. 
She  says  :  ''  I  was  alone  the  whole  of  the  day ;  so  I 
continued  my  mathematical  and  other  pursuits,  but 
under  great  disadvantages  ;  for  although  my  hus- 
band did  not  prevent  me  from  studying,  I  met  with 
no  sympathy  whatever  from  him,  as  he  had  a  very 
low  opinion  of  the  capacity  of  my  sex,  and  had 
neither  knowledge  of,  nor  interest  in,  science  of 
any  kind.  I  took  lessons  in  French,  and  learned 
to  speak  it  so  as  to  be  understood." 

After  three  years  of  married  life  she  returned,  a 
widow  with  two  children,  to  her  parental  home  at 
Burnt  Island,  where  she  resumed  her  studies  with 
more  diligence  than  ever.  Professor  Wallace,  of 
Edinburgh  University,  made  her  out  a  catalogue  of 
books  in  the  highest  branches  of  mathematics. 
The  list  was  formidable,  but  she  procured  them 
and  mastered  them.  They  consisted  of  Fran- 
coeur's  "  Pure  Mathematics,"  and  his  "  Elements  of 
Mechanics;"  La  Croix's  "Algebra,"  and  his  large 
work  on  the  "  Differential  and  Integral  Calcu- 
lus," together  with  his  treatise  on  ''  Finite  Differ- 
ences and  Series;"  Biot's  ''Analytical  Geometry 
and  Astronomy ;  "  Poisson's  "  Treatise  on  Mechan- 
ics ;  "  La  Grange's  "  Theory  of  Analytical  Func^ 
tions;*"'  Euler's  "Algebra,"  and  his  "  Isoperimet- 
rical  Problems"  in  Latin;  Clariault's  "Figure  of 
the  Earth  ;  "  Monge's  "  Application  of  Analysis  to 


Mary  Somerville.  163 

Geometry;"  Callet*s  "Logarithms;"  La  Place's 
'*  M^canique  Celeste,"  and  his  "  Analytical  Theory 
of  Probabilities."  To  how  many  women  in  the 
United  States  could  such  a  list  of  books  be  offered 
without  its  being  considered  a  practical  joke,  or 
rather  an  ironical  mockery  of  the  conventional  esti- 
mate of  the  capacity  of  the  sex  for  higher  education  ? 
Could  not  the  number  be  counted  on  one's  fingers? 
Are  there  ten  in  all  the  new  world  ?  Are  there 
fifty  in  all  the  world  ?  Yet  it  was  to  the  mother  of 
a  family,  educating  herself  at  home,  that  Wallace 
prescribed  this  course  of  study!  "  I  was  thirty- 
three  years  of  age,"  she  says,  "  when  I  bought  this 
excellent  library.  I  could  hardly  believe  that  I 
possessed  such  a  treasure  when  I  looked  back  on 
the  day  that  I  first  saw  the  mysterious  word. 
Algebra,  and  the  long  course  of  years  in  which  I 
had  persevered  almost  without  hope.  It  taught 
me  never  to  despair.  I  had  now  the  means,  and 
pursued  my  studies  with  increased  assiduity ;  con- 
cealment was  no  longer  possible,  nor  was  it  at- 
tempted. I  was  considered  eccentric  and  foolish, 
and  my  conduct  was  highly  disapproved  of  by 
many,  especially  by  some  members  of  my  family. 
As  I  was  quite  independent,  I  did  not  care  for  their 
criticism." 

Her  second  marriage  with  her  cousin.  Dr.  Will- 
iam Somerville,  in  18 12,  opened  a  new  life  before 
her.     He  was  a  man  of  considerable  learning,  but 


164  Character-Sketches. 

gratefully  recognized  the  superiority  of  his  wife. 
Their  domestic  life,  though  attended  by  the  usual 
household  trials,  and  at  one  time  by  an  entire  loss 
of  fortune  through  the  treachery  of  a  trusted  friend, 
was  a  scene  of  closest  mutual  sympathy,  of 
joint  culture,  and  the  purest  happiness.  One  of 
their  daughters  says :  "  Nothing  can  be  more  erro- 
neous than  the  statement,  repeated  in  several  obitu- 
ary notices  of  my  mother,  that  Mr.  Greig  (her  first 
husband)  aided  her  in  her  mathematical  and  other 
pursuits.  Nearly  contrary  was  the  case.  Mr. 
Greig  took  no  interest  in  science  or  literature,  and 
possessed  in  full  the  prejudice  against  learned 
women  which  was  common  at  that  time.  Only  on 
her  marriage  with  my  father  did  my  mother  at  last 
meet  with  one  who  entirely  sympathized  with  her, 
and  warmly  entered  into  all  her  ideas,  encouraging 
her  zeal  for  study  to  the  utmost,  and  affording 
her  every  facility  for  it  in  his  power.  His  love  and 
admiration  for  her  were  unbounded ;  he  frankly 
and  willingly  acknowledged  her  superiority  to  him- 
self, and  many  of  our  friends  can  bear  witness  to 
the  honest  pride  and  gratification  which  he  always 
testified  in  the  fame  and  honors  she  attained." 

Two  facts  are,  then,  apparent  thus  far  in  the 
intellectual  history  of  this  remarkable  woman  :  first, 
that  she  had  no  precocious  capacity  for  the  success 
which  distinguished  her  career  ;  secondly,  that  she 
had  not  even  the  ordinary  facilities  and  encourage- 


Mary  Somerville.  165 

ments  of  such  a  career — that  down  to  the  time  of 
her  second  marriage,  she  prosecuted  her  studies  in 
the  usual  domestic  circumstances  of  her  sex.  Hers 
was,  in  fine,  a  rare,  a  splendid  example  of  self-edu- 
cation in  ordinary  life— education  up  to  the  loftiest, 
most  erudite,  and  most  difficult  attainments  of 
science,  without  a  school,  without  teachers,  with- 
out one  advantage  for  study.  We  know  not  where 
to  find  a  similar  example  in  all  literary  history. 
This  quiet,  sublime  walk  of  a  modest,  and  even 
timid,  woman — for  such  she  was — in  the  common 
path  of  the  commonplace  duties  of  domestic  life, 
and  yet  in  the  widest  career  of  knowledge,  com- 
passing the  earth  and  scaling  the  heavens,  is  a 
marvel  of  intellectual  development — a  demonstra- 
tion of  the  spiritual  greatness,  the  immortal  desti- 
nation of  the  human  soul. 

A  third  fact  is  worthy  of  being  emphasized, 
though  it  has  been  already  indicated ;  namely, 
that  there  was  no  scientific  "  hobbyism "  in  her 
pursuit  of  knowledge ;  no  mere  indulgence  of  a 
special  intellectual  proclivity,  or  display  of  a  spe- 
cial mental  capacity.  She  aimed  at  complete 
self-culture  and  universal  knowledge.  Her  collec- 
tion of  shells  and  minerals  in  childhood  was  the 
necleus  of  a  cabinet  of  conchology  and  mineralogy 
which  became  one  of  the  principal  articles  of  her 
domestic  furniture  in  maturer  life ;  and  while  the 
mathematics,  the  abstract  sciences,  were  the  chief 


I  es  Character-  Sketches. 

field  of  her  fame,  she  was  a  technical  and  accom- 
plished naturalist.  It  may  well  be  doubted  whether 
any  woman  of  her  age  excelled  her  in  this  depart- 
ment alone.  She  was  a  thorough  botanist.  Geol- 
ogy came  up  as  a  science  in  her  day;  she  began 
with  it  nearly  at  the  beginning,  kept  pace  with  it 
down  to  her  ninety-second  year,  and  was  one  of  the 
first  sufferers  of  public  obloquy  for  its  theory  of  cre- 
ation, at  first  misunderstood.  She  was  denounced, 
by  name,  from  the  pulpit  of  York  Cathedral  for 
opinions  which  are  now  accepted  by  all  authori- 
tative biblical  critics.  She  not  only  carefully  read, 
but  studied  through,  the  whole  varied  course  of  the 
physical  and  experimental  sciences,  down  to  the 
most  obscure  and  minute  subjects  of  molecular  and 
microscopic  inquiry.  Faraday  delighted  to  con- 
verse and  to  correspond  with  her,  as  an  appre- 
ciative authority  in  his  most  recondite  researches. 
La  Place  was  proud  to  correspond  with  her,  as  one 
of  the  very  few  minds,  in  all  the  intellectual  world, 
who  could  understand  his  treatise  on  the  Celes- 
tial Mechanism ;  her  reproduction  and  simplifica- 
tion of  that  matchless  work,  in  her  "  Mechanism  of 
the  Heavens,"  was  itself,  it  is  said,  above  the  intel- 
lectual reach  of  all  France,  except  a  few — Poisson 
said  twenty  —  mathematical  scholars.  Sir  John 
Herschell  read  it  with  "  the  highest  admiration." 
"  What  a  pity,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  La  Place  did 
not  live  to  see  this  illustration  of  his  great  work !  " 


Mary  Somerville.  167 

Whewell,  on  receiving  it,  said :  "  When  Mrs.  Som- 
erville shows  herself  in  the  field  wherein  we  mathe- 
maticians have  been  laboring  all  our  lives,  and  puts 
us  to  shame,  she  ought  not  to  be  surprised  if  we 
move  off  to  other  grounds."  Biot  was  appointed 
by  the  Academic  des  Sciences,  of  Paris,  to  draw  up 
for  it  a  report  on  the  work.  He  pronounced  it 
*'  an  astonishing  treatise ;  "  La  Croix,  Legendre, 
and  the  other  Parisian  mathematicians,  shared 
his  "  vivid  and  profound  admiration."  She  was 
forthwith  elected  a  member  of  most  of  the  learned 
societies  of  Europe ;  the  Royal  Society  of  Lon- 
don ordered  her  bust,  from  Chantrey,  to  be 
placed  in  their  great  hall.  To  her  womanhood, 
her  chief  joy,  amid  this  universal  outburst  of  ap- 
plause, in  which  her  kindred,  who  had  hitherto 
ridiculed  her,  now  enthusiastically  joined,  was  in 
"  the  warmth  with  which  Somerville,"  her  husband, 
entered  into  her  success.  **  It  deeply  affected  me," 
she  writes,  "  for  not  one  in  ten  thousand  would 
have  rejoiced  at  it  as  he  did." 

Her  '*  Physical  Geography  "  displayed  still  more 
the  diversity  of  her  learning.  Humboldt  read  it 
twice  with  delight.  "  It  has  charmed  and  instructed 
me,"  he  wrote.  **  It  showed  that,  to  the  great 
superiority  "  of  its  author  *'  in  the  high  region  of 
mathematical  analysis,"  she  joined  "  variety  of 
knowledge  in  all  departments  of  physics  and  nat- 
ural history."     Her  "  Mechanism  of  the  Heavens," 


1 68  Character-Sketches. 

and  her  ''  Connection  of  the  Physical  Sciences," 
were  objects  of  Humboldt's  *'  constant  admiration." 
"  I  know  in  no  language  a  work  on  Physical  Geog- 
raphy that  can  be  compared  with  hers,"  he  said. 
"  The  author  of  '  Cosmos'  ought,  more  than  any  one 
else,  to  hail  the  *  Physical  Geography  '  of  Mary  Som- 
erville."  He  expressed  surprise  at  the  correctness 
of  her  views  of  the  ''  Geography  of  Plants  and 
Animals."  She  "  dominates  in  these  regions,  as  in 
astronomy,  meteorology,  and  magnetism." 

This  versatility  of  her  knowledge,  combined  as  it 
was  with  depth  and  accuracy,  is  among  the  won- 
ders of  her  intellectual  character.  Her  daughter 
says  that,  ''Although  her  favorite  pursuit,  and  the 
one  for  which  she  had  decidedly  most  aptitude, 
was  mathematics,  yet  there  were  few  subjects  in 
which  she  did  not  take  interest,  whether  in  science 
or  literature,  philosophy  or  politics.  She  was  pas- 
sionately fond  of  poetry,  her  especial  favorites  be- 
ing Shakspeare  and  Dante  ;  also  the  great  Greek 
dramatists,  whose  tragedies  she  read  fluently  in  the 
original,  being  a  good  classical  scholar.  She  was 
very  fond  of  music,  and  devoted  much  time  to  it  in 
her  youth  ;  and  she  painted  from  nature  with  con- 
siderable taste.  The  latter  was,  perhaps,  the  rec- 
reation in  which  she  most  delighted,  from  the  op- 
portunity it  afforded  her  of  contemplating  the  won- 
derful beauty  of  the  world,  which  was  a  never-failing 
source   of  intense   enjoyment   to  her,  whether  she 


Mary  Somerville.  169 

watched  the  changing  effects  of  light  and  shade 
on  her  favorite  Roman  Campagna,  or  gazed  en- 
chanted on  the  sunsets  of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  as 
she  witnessed  them  from  her  much-loved  Sorrento, 
where  she  passed  the  last  summers  of  her  life.  All 
things  fair  were  a  joy  to  her.  The  flowers  we 
brought  to  her  from  our  rambles,  the  sea-weeds, 
the  wild  birds  she  saw,  all  interested  and  pleased 
her.  Every  thing  in  nature  spoke  to  her  of  that 
great  God  who  created  all  things,  the  grand  and 
sublimely  beautiful,  as  well  as  the  exquisite  loveli- 
ness of  minute  objects.  Above  all,  in  the  laws 
which  science  unvails  step  by  step,  she  found  ever- 
renewed  motives  for  the  love  and  adoration  of  their 
Author  and  sustainer.  This  fervor  of  religious 
feeling  accompanied  her  through  life,  and  very 
early  she  shook  off  all  that  was  dark  and  narrow  in 
the  creed  of  her  first  instructors  for  a  purer  and 
happier  faith." 

A  fourth  fact,  and  one  to  be  especially  noted,  is, 
that  this  high  intellectual  culture  and  labor — never 
equaled  among  women,  so  far  as  we  know — in  no 
wise  interfered  with  her  domestic  life,  or  her  duties 
as  woman,  wife,  and  mother.  She  had  the  good  sense 
to  guard  her  life  not  only  against  any  perversion,  but 
against  any  misconstruction,  in  this  respect.  She 
affected  no  eccentricities,  claimed  no  exemptions 
on  the  score  of  her  intellectual  supremacy,  but  was 
of  the  simplest,  purest,  finest  womanly  nature.    She 


I70  Character-Sketches. 

brought  up  a  considerable  family,  and  her  children 
blessed  her  memory.  '^  It  would  be  almost  in- 
credible," says  one  of  them,  *^  how  much  my  moth- 
er contrived  to  do  in  the  course  of  the  day.  When 
my  sister  and  I  were  small  children,  although  busily 
engaged  in  writing  for  the  press,  she  used  to  teach 
us  for  three  hours  every  morning,  besides  managing 
her  house  carefully,  reading  the  newspapers,  (for 
she  always  was  a  keen  and,  I  must  add,  a  liberal 
politician,)  and  the  most  important  new  books  on 
all  subjects,  grave  and  gay.  In  addition  to  all  this, 
she  freely  visited  and  received  her  friends.  She 
was,  indeed,  very  fond  of  society,  and  did  not  look 
for  transcendent  talent  in  those  with  whom  she  as- 
sociated, although  no  one  appreciated  it  more  when 
she  found  it.  Gay  and  cheerful  company  was  a 
pleasant  relaxation  after  a  hard  day's  work.  My 
mother  never  introduced  scientific  or  learned  sub- 
jects into  general  conversation.  When  they  were 
brought  forward  by  others  she  talked  simply  and 
naturally  about  them,  without  the  slighest  preten- 
sion to  superior  knowledge.  Finally,  to  complete 
the  list  of  her  accomplishments,  I  must  add  that 
she  was  a  remarkably  neat  and  skillful  needle- 
woman. We  still  possess  some  elaborate  speci- 
mens of  her  embroidery  and  lace  work." 

This  symmetrical  and  truly  beautiful  life  was  not 
without  the  usual  tests  of  suffering.  She  buried 
children  and  her  two  husbands,  and  at  last  survived 


Makv  Somerville.  171 

nearly  all  her  early  friends.  After  losing  her  for- 
tune she  was  dependent  upon  a  Government  pen- 
sion, first  of  one  thousand,  later  of  fifteen  hundred 
dollars  a  year,  and,  for  economy,  lived  many  years 
in  Italy.  But  her  intellectual  and  moral  life  held 
on,  self-sustained,  serene,  even  felicitous.  Its  noble 
habitudes  and  aims  rendered  it  superior  not  only 
to  defeat,  but  even  to  depression.  She  was  a 
notable  example  of  the  sanative  effects  of  con- 
tinuous, but  prudent,  mental  labor.  She  ex- 
pressed the  secret  of  her  whole  intellectual  his- 
tory when  she  said,  "  I  wrote  because  it  was  impos- 
sible for  me  to  be  idle."  Work  is  a  condition  of 
happiness,  and,  to  a  great  extent,  of  health.  It  is 
a  law  of  nature.  A  naturally  superior  mind  can 
never  be  happy  without  it,  whatever  blissful  exemp- 
tion vacant  heads  may  have  from  the  salutary  ne- 
cessity, the  divine  law.  Great  capability  is  always 
accompanied  with  an  instinct  for  great  work,  and  a 
consequent  sense  of  distress  in  idleness.  He  that 
would  learn  the  art  of  happy  and  healthy  living 
must  learn  the  art  of  wisely  working;  not  of  over- 
work, indeed,  but  equally  not  of  underwork.  A 
good  medical  authority.  Dr.  Wilks,  of  Guy's  Hospi- 
tal, has  said :  "  The  persons  with  unstrung  nerves, 
who  apply  to  the  doctor,  are  not  the  prime  minis- 
ter, the  Bishops,  judges,  and  hard-working  profes- 
sional men,  but  merchants  and  stock-brokers,  re- 
tired from  business ;  Government  clerks  who  work 


1/2  Character-Sketches. 

from  ten  to  four ;  women  whose  domestic  duties 
and  bad  servants  are  driving  them  to  the  grave ; 
young  ladies  whose  visits  to  the  village  school,  or 
Sunday  performances  on  the  organ,  are  undermin- 
ing their  health  ;  and  so  on.  In  short,  in  my  ex- 
perience I  see  more  ailments  arise  from  want  of 
occupation  than  from  overwork ;  and,  taking  the 
various  kinds  of  nervous  and  dyspeptic  ailments 
which  we  are  constantly  treating,  I  find  at  least  six 
due  to  idleness  to  one  from  overwork." 

The  sense  of  achievement,  especially  of  achieving 
something  useful  to  others  as  well  as  to  ourselves, 
is  an  exhilarating,  a  health-giving  consciousness. 
More  effectually  than  any  thing  else  it  expels 
morbid  self-consciousness,  and  misgivings  about 
the  value  and  results  of  life.  To  the  thorougrh 
worker  the  so-called  "  mystery  "  of  life  is  ''  an  open 
secret."  To  him  life  is  probation,  and  the  most 
obvious  condition  of  that  probation  is  productive, 
beneficent  labor.  Most  of  the  wretchedness  of 
human  life,  among  persons  of  culture,  arises  from 
either  the  lack  of  enough  to  do,  or  from  the  mis- 
fortune of  being  wrongly  placed  in  their  sphere  of 
activity.  The  fundamental  principle  of  Goethe's 
theory  of  education,  as  developed  in  ''  Wilhelm 
Meister,"  that  it  must  be  conformed  to  the  natural 
capabilities,  and  especially  to  the  natural  proclivi- 
ties of  the  student,  applies  equally  to  his  subse- 
quent career;  for  the  latter  is  a  continuous  process 


Mary  Somerville.  173 

of  self-education  for  good  or  evil.  To  have  the 
heart  on  the  side  of  one's  labor  is  to  redouble  the 
probabilities  of  success,  and  to  turn  labor  itself  into 
pleasure. 

Mary  Somerville  had  no  morbid  sensitiveness; 
she  maintained  her  whole  nature  in  a  tranquil,  vig- 
orous, wholesome  tone  by  always  having  something 
to  do.  When  more  than  eighty  years  old,  with  a 
fame  that  filled  the  civilized  world,  she  proposed 
still  another  great  work,  which  would  involve  the 
most  laborious  details  of  study  and  research.  It 
was  a  necessity  of  her  being ;  one  of  those  necessi- 
ties which  made  her  life  beautiful  and  blessed. 

"  I  was  now,"  she  says,  "  unoccupied,  and  felt 
the  necessity  of  having  something  to  do,  desultory 
reading  being  insufficient  to  interest  me  ;  and  as  I 
had  always  considered  the  section  on  chemistry 
the  weakest  part  of  the  '  Connection  of  Physical 
Sciences,*  I  resolved  to  write  it  anew.  My  daugh- 
ters strongly  opposed  this,  saying,  '  Why  not  write 
a  new  book  ?  *  They  were  right  ;  it  would  have 
been  lost  time.  So  I  followed  their  advice,  though 
it  was  a  formidable  undertaking  at  my  age,  con- 
sidering that  the  general  character  of  science  had 
greatly  changed.  By  the  improved  state  of  the 
microscope,  an  invisible  creation  in  the  air,  the 
earth,  and  the  water,  had  been  brought  within  the 
limits  of  human  vision ;  the  microscopic  structure 
of  plants  and  animals  had  been  minutely  studied, 


174  Character-Sketches. 

and,  by  synthesis,  many  substances  had  been 
formed  of  the  elementary  atoms  similar  to  those 
produced  by  nature.  Dr.  Tyndall's  experiments 
had  proved  the  inconceivable  minuteness  of  the 
atoms  of  matter.  Mr.  Gassiot  and  Professor  Plii- 
cher  had  published  their  experiments  on  the  strat- 
ification of  the  electric  light  ;  and  that  series  of 
discoveries  by  scientific  men  abroad,  but  chiefly  by 
our  own  philosophers  at  home,  which  had  been  in 
progress  for  a  course  of  years,  prepared  the  way 
for  Bunsen  and  Kirchhof's  marvelous  consumma- 
tion. Such  was  the  field  opened  to  me  ;  but  in- 
stead of  being  discouraged  by  its  magnitude,  I 
seemed  to  have  resumed  the  perseverance  and  en- 
ergy of  my  youth,  and  began  to  write  with  cour- 
age, though  I  did  not  think  I  should  hve  to  finish 
even  the  sketch  which  I  had  made.  I  was  now  an 
old  woman,  very  deaf,  and  with  shaking  hands.  I 
wrote  regularly  every  morning  from  eight  till  twelve 
or  one  o'clock,  before  rising.  I  was  not  alone,  for 
I  had  a  mountain  sparrow,  a  great  pet,  which  sat, 
and,  indeed,  is  sitting  on  my  arm  as  I  write  these 
lines." 

When  eighty-nine  years  old  she  says  :  "  t  have 
still  the  habit  of  studying  in  bed  from  eight  in  the 
morning  till  twelve  or  one  o'clock  ;  but  I  am  soli- 
tary, for  I  have  lost  my  little  bird,  who  was  my 
constant  companion  for  eight  years." 

To  a  poetically  inclined  critic  her  sympathy  with 


Mary  Somerville.  175 

the  brute  creation  must  appear  worthy  of  special 
notice  as  one  of  her  finest  traits,  and  as  hardly  to 
be  expected  in  association  with  her  abstract  stud- 
ies and  severe  mental  habits.  No  lady-lounger 
of  the  boudoir  was  ever  fonder  of  pets  than  this 
student  of  the  most  recondite  problems  of  the 
universe.  Her  great  soul  did  not  disdain  to  recog- 
nize some  affinity  between  itself  and  the  *'  mount- 
ain sparrow"  which  sat  upon  her  arm,  ate  from 
her  lips,  or  watched,  through  her  studious  hours, 
her  pen  tracing  mathematical  diagrams  which  de- 
fined the  highest  mechanism  of  the  heavens.  She 
repeatedly  alludes  to  it  with  genuine  pathos.  **  It 
had  both  memory  and  intelligence,"  she  says, 
"  and  such  confidence  in  me  as  to  sleep  upon  my 
arm  while  I  was  writing.  My  daughter,  to  whom 
it  was  much  attached,  coming  into  my  room  early, 
was  alarmed  at  its  not  flying  to  meet  her,  as  it 
generally  did,  and  at  last,  after  a  long  search,  the 
poor  little  creature  was  found  drowned  in  the  water- 
pitcher."  She  gathered  almost  an  aviary  of  such 
pets  about  her,  and  their  life  seemed  to  enter  into 
her  own. 

"  We  are  fond  of  birds,"  she  writes,  "  and  have 
several,  all  very  tame.  Our  tame  nightingales 
sing  beautifully,  but,  strange  to  say,  not  at  night. 
We  have  also  some  solitary  sparrows,  which  are, 
in  fact,  a  variety  of  the  thrush,  {Turdus  Cya- 
neuSy)  and  some  birds  which  we  rescued  from  de- 


176  Character-Sketches. 

struction  in  spring,  when  caught  and  ill  used  by 
the  boys  in  the  streets  ;  besides,  we  have  our  dogs  ; 
all  of  which  afford  me  amusement  and  interest." 
In  her  numerous  transitions  about  middle  and 
southern  Italy,  she  speaks  of  taking  with  her  *'  our 
pet  birds  "  as  well  as  **  our  servants  :  "  "  For  I  now 
have  a  beautiful  long-tailed  paroquet,  called  Sme- 
raldo,  who  is  my  constant  companion  and  is  very 
familiar.  And  here  I  must  mention  how  much  I 
was  pleased  to  hear  that  Mr.  Herbert,  M.  P.,  has 
brought  in  a  bill,  which  has  been  passed  in  Parlia- 
ment, to  protect  land  birds ;  but  I  am  grieved  to 
find  that  the  lark,  which  at  heaven's  gate  sings,  is 
thought  unworthy  of  man's  protection.  Among 
the  numerous  plans  for  education  of  the  young,  let 
us  hope  that  mercy  may  be  taught  as  a  part  of 
religion." 

It  was  a  fine  sentiment  of  humanity  that  led  her 
thus  to  sympathize  with  the  lower  animals,  who 
share  so  many  of  our  sufferings  and  so  few  of  our  re- 
liefs. Italy  was,  at  this  time,  addicted  to  atrocious 
cruelty  toward  them.  It  was  the  only  civilized 
land  in  Europe  that  had  no  law  for  their  protec- 
tion. For  eight  years  attempts  to  provide  such  a 
law  had  been  defeated.  A  new  attempt  was  made, 
with  which  Mrs.  Somerville  heartily  co-operated, 
signing  the  petition  and  urging  it  upon  the  atten- 
tion of  the  aristocratic  women  of  the  country.  It 
was,  indeed,  more  than  a  sentiment  of  humanity ; 


Mary  Somerville.  177 

it  was  a  sentiment  of  religion  that  prompted  her 
interest  for  these  speechless  sufferers.  With  Wes- 
ley, Swedenborg,  and  many  other  large-minded  as 
well  as  large-hearted  men,  she  believed  in  a  future 
compensative  life  for  the  brute  creation  —  "the 
creature  was  made  subject  to  vanity,  not  willingly, 
but  by  reason  of  Him  who  hath  subjected  the  same 
in  hope,"  but  which,  with  "the  whole  creation,  groan- 
eth  and  travaileth  in  pain  together  until  now;" 
"  because  the  creature  itself  also  shall  be  delivered 
from  the  bondage  of  corruption  into  the  glorious 
liberty  of  the  children  of  God."  "  For  the  earnest 
expectation  of  the  creature  waiteth  for  the  mani- 
festation of  the  sons  of  God."  It  was  not  only 
the  mystic  light  of  these  intimations  of  Reve- 
lation on  the  ultimate  fate  of  the  living  world, 
that  gave  Mrs.  Somerville  sympathetic  hope  for 
the  lower  forms  of  life  ;  her  philosophy  sanctioned 
these  sublime  utterances. 

When  about  to  step  into  the  invisible  world 
she  says,  with  deep  pathos  as  well  as  philosophy : 
"  We  are  told  of  the  infinite  glories  of  that 
state,  and  I  believe  in  them,  though  it  is  incom- 
prehensible to  us ;  but  as  I  do  comprehend,  in 
some  degree  at  least,  the  exquisite  lovehness 
of  the  visible  world,  I  confess  I  shall  be  sorry 
to  leave  it.  I  shall  regret  the  sky,  the  sea,  with 
all  the  changes  of  their  beautiful  coloring ;  the 
earth,  with  its  verdure  and  flowers  ;  but  far  more 
12 


178  Character-Sketches. 

shall  I  grieve  to  leave  animals,  who  have  followed 
our  steps  affectionately  for  years,  without  knowing 
for  certainty  their  ultimate  fate,  though  I  firmly 
believe  that  the  living  principle  is  never  extin- 
guished. Since  the  atoms  of  matter  are  indestruct- 
ible, as  far  as  we  know,  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that 
the  spark  which  gives  to  their  union  life,  memory, 
affection,  intelligence,  and  fidelity,  is  evanescent. 
Every  atom  in  the  human  frame,  as  well  as  in  that 
of  animals,  undergoes  a  radical  change  by  contin- 
ual waste  and  renovation  ;  the  abode  is  changed, 
not  its  inhabitant.  If  animals  have  no  future, 
the  existence  of  many  is  most  wretched ;  multi- 
tudes are  starved,  cruelly  beaten,  and  loaded  dur- 
ing life  ;  many  die  under  a  barbarous  vivisection. 
I  cannot  believe  that  any  creature  was  created 
for  uncompensated  misery;  it  would  be  contrary 
to  the  attributes  of  God's  mercy  and  justice. 
I  am  sincerely  happy  to  find  that  1  am  not  the 
only  believer  in  the  immortality  of  the  lower  an- 
imals." 

It  is  delightful  to  trace  along  minutely  so  rare, 
so  satisfactory  a  life,  as  it  tends  toward  its  long- 
deferred  conclusion.  When  ninety-one  years  old 
she  resumes  her  mathematical  studies  in  some  new 
books  which  had  advanced  to  higher  grounds  in  al- 
gebra, and  especially  in  quaternions. 

"  So  now  I  got  exactly  what  I  wanted,"  she 
writes,  "  and  I  am  very  busy  for  a  few  hours  every 


Mary  Somerville.  179 

morning  ;  delighted  to  have  an  occupation  so  en- 
tirely to  my  mind.  I  thank  God  that  my  intellect 
is  still  unimpaired  !  During  the  rest  of  the  day  I 
have  recourse  to  Shakspcare,  Dante,  and  more 
modern  light  reading,  besides  the  newspapers, 
which  always  interested  me  much.  I  have  re- 
sumed my  habit  of  working,  and  can  count  the 
threads  of  a  fine  canvas  without  spectacles.  I  re- 
ceive every  one  who  comes  to  see  me,  and  often 
have  the  pleasure  of  a  visit  from  old  friends  very 
unexpectedly.  In  the  evening  I  read  a  novel,  but 
my  tragic  days  are  over ;  I  prefer  a  cheerful  con- 
versational novel  to  the  sentimental  ones.  I  have 
recently  been  reading  Walter  Scott's  novels  again, 
and  enjoy  the  broad  Scotch  in  them.  I  play  a  few 
games  of  B^zique  with  one  of  my  daughters  for 
honor  and  glory,  and  so  our  evenings  pass  pleas- 
antly enough.  It  is  our  habit  to  be  separately  oc- 
cupied during  the  morning,  and  to  spend  the  rest 
of  the  day  together." 

The  next  year  she  writes  :  "  I  am  now  in  my 
ninety-second  year,  (1872,)  still  able  to  drive  out 
for  several  hours.  I  am  extremely  deaf,  and  my 
memory  of  ordinary  events,  and  especially  of  the 
names  of  people,  is  failing,  but  not  for  mathemat- 
ical or  scientific  subjects.  I  am  still  able  to  read 
books  on  the  higher  algebra  for  four  or  five  hours 
in  the  morning,  and  even  to  solve  the  problems. 
Sometimes  I  find  them  difficult,  but  my  old  obsti- 


1 80  Character-Sketches. 

nacy  remains,  for  if  I  do  not  succeed  to-day,  I 
attack  them  again  on  the  morrow.  I  also  enjoy 
reading  about  the  new  discoveries  and  theories 
in  the  scientific  world  and  on  all  branches  of 
science." 

Her  last  record,  in  her  last  year,  is  worthy  of  her 
whole  life  :  **  Though  far  advanced  in^  years,  I  take 
as  lively  an  interest  as  ever  in  passing  events. 
The  Blue  Peter  has  been  long  flying  at  my  fore- 
mast, and  now  that  I  am  in  my  ninety-second  year 
I  must  soon  expect  the  signal  for  sailing.  It  is  a 
solemn  voyage,  but  it  does  not  disturb  my  tran- 
quillity. Deeply  sensible  of  my  utter  unworthiness, 
and  profoundly  grateful  for  the  innumerable  bless- 
ings I  have  received,  I  trust  in  the  infinite  mercy 
of  my  almighty  Creator.  I  have  every  reason  to 
be  thankful  that  my  intellect  is  still  unimpaired  ; 
and  although  my  strength  is  weakness,  my  daugh- 
ters support  my  tottering  steps,  and,  by  incessant 
care  and  help,  make  the  infirmities  of  age  so  light 
to  me  that  I  am  perfectly  happy." 

This  enviable  happiness,  and  also  this  notable 
longevity,  could  probably  never  have  been  attained 
but  by  such  persistent,  practical  life — the  habit  of 
working  on,  which  is,  in  the  best  sense,  living  on. 
Beyond  a  doubt  this  was  true  in  respect  to  the 
continued  integrity  of  her  mental  faculties  and  her 
enjoyment  of  life.  She  enjoyed  life  in  extreme  age, 
because    it    was   filled    with    befitting   occupation*, 


Mary  Somerville.  i8i 

she  kept  her  faculties  in  their  integrity,  because  she 
kept  them  in  habitual  exercise.  Labor  had  become 
a  luxury  to  her,  as  it  docs  to  all  faithful  workers. 
She  kept  it  up  to  the  day  of  her  death,  and  her 
death  itself  was  enviable.  "  My  mother,"  writes  her 
daughter,  "  died  in  sleep  on  the  morning  of  No- 
vember 29,  1872." 

The  final  testimony  of  her  biographer  is  that  her 
"  old  age  was  a  thoroughly  happy  one.  She  often 
said  that  not  even  in  the  joyous  spring  of  life  had 
she  been  more  truly  happy.  Serene  and  cheerful, 
full  of  life  and  activity,  as  far  as  her  physical 
strength  permitted,  she  had  none  of  the  infirmities 
of  age,  except  difficulty  in  hearing,  which  prevented 
her  from  joining  in  general  conversation.  She  had 
always  been  near-sighted,  but  could  read  small  print 
with  the  greatest  ease  without  glasses,  even  by 
lamp-light.  To  the  last,  her  intellect  remained  per- 
fectly unclouded  ;  her  affection  for  those  she  loved, 
and  her  sympathy  for  all  living  beings,  as  fervent  as 
ever  ;  nor  did  her  ardent  desire  for  and  belief  in  the 
ultimate  religious  and  moral  improvement  of  man- 
kind diminish.  She  always  retained  her  habit  of 
study  ;  and  that  pursuit  in  which  she  had  attained 
such  excellence,  and  which  was  the  most  congenial 
to  her — mathematics — delighted  and  amused  her  to 
the  end.  Her  last  occupations,  continued  to  the 
actual  day  of  her  death,  were  the  revision  and  com- 
pletion of  a  treatise  which  she  had  wjpt^jMLj^ears 

/f^  OP  th:-.  ^  ^P^ 

f/nifI7EF.:iTY 


1 82  Character-Sketches. 

before,  on  the  *  Theory  of  Differences,'  (with  dia- 
grams exquisitely  drawn,)  and  the  study  of  a  book 
on  Quaternions.  Though  too  reHgious  to  fear  death, 
she  dreaded  outHving  her  intellectual  powers ;  and 
it  was  with  intense  delight  that  she  pursued  her  in-, 
tricate  calculations  after  her  ninetieth  and  ninety- 
first  years  ;  she  repeatedly  told  me  how  she  rejoiced 
to  find  that  she  had  the  same  readiness  and  facility 
in  comprehending  and  developing  these  extremely 
difficult  /or mu/cBf  which  she  possessed  when  young. 
Often,  also,  she  said  how  grateful  she  was  to  the 
almighty  Father  who  had  allowed  her  to  retain  her 
faculties  unimpaired  to  so  great  an  age.  God  was, 
indeed,  loving  and  merciful  to  her ;  not  only  did  he 
spare  her  this  calamity,  but  also  the  weary  trial  of 
long-continued  illness.  In  health  of  body  and  vigor 
of  mind,  having  lived  far  beyond  the  usual  span  of 
human  life.  He  called  her  to  Himself.  For  her, 
death  lost  all  its  terrors.  Her  pure  spirit  passed 
away  so  gently  that  those  around  her  scarcely  per- 
ceived when  she  left  them.  It  was  the  beautiful 
and  painless  close  of  a  noble  and  a  happy  life." 

Such  was  one  of  the  most  noteworthy  lives  in 
the  history  of  the  human  race.  Its  rare  length 
alone  would  entitle  it  to  be  so  regarded ;  its  rare 
happiness  in  old  age ;  its  still  rarer  success  in  the 
highest  culture ;  the  yet  rarer  fact  of  this  success 
being  achieved  by  a  woman,  render  it  altogether 
unique   and   admirable.     But   its  most  noteworthy 


MaRV    St>.MhK\  ILl.K.  lr,j 

fact,  because  most  instructive  and  consolatory  to  us 
all,  is  that  it  was  achieved,  as  we  have  shown,  in  the 
ordinary  circumstances,  amid  the  pre-occupations 
and  duties  of  our  common  life. 

That  all  minds,  of  average  capacity,  can  equ;.l 
her  success  it  would  be  presumptuous  to  affirm  ; 
but  some  degree  of  success  is  within  the  reach  of 
all  who  have  the  resolution  to  be  equally  diligent 
and  persistent.  Mary  Somerville  judged  herself 
very  frankly,  and  she  never  claimed  any  thing  like 
genius ;  she  claimed  nothing  more  than  an  unusual 
degree  of  **  perseverance."  If  there  was  any  ele- 
ment of  what  is  called  genius  in  her  mental  consti- 
tution, it  must  have  been  of  a  mathematical  char- 
acter. There  are  scattered  through  her  writings 
occasional  indications  of  that  insight,  that  presci- 
ent perception  of  truth,  which  is  usually  esteemed 
genius,  but  which  may  be  largely  the  result  of 
persistent  inquiry  and  thorough  mental  discipline. 
One  of  the  sublimest  achievements  of  science  in  our 
age  is  an  illustration  of  her  prophetic  faculty  in  this 
respect.  In  1846  the  learned  world  was  startled  by 
the  simultaneous  announcement,  from  Adams,  of 
England,  and  Leverrier,  of  France,  of  the  demon- 
stration, by  mere  mathematical  calculation,  of  the 
existence,  size,  position  in  space,  and  the  periodic 
time,  of  a  hitherto  unseen  planet,  rolling  around 
our  system,  3 ,(X)0,ooo,ooo  of  miles  from  the  sun. 
The  telescopes  of  Europe  were  pointed  to  the  desig- 


1 84  Character-Sketches. 

nated  place,  and  the  declaration  of  the  two  mathe- 
maticians was  confirmed.  Four  years  before  this 
discovery  Mary  Somerville  had  given,  in  her  "  Con- 
nection of  the  Physical  Sciences,"  this  ever-mem- 
orable sentence :  "  If  after  the  lapse  of  years  the 
tables  formed  from  a  combination  of  numerous  ob- 
servations should  be  still  inadequate  to  represent 
the  motions  of  Uranus,  the  discrepancies  may  re- 
veal the  existence,  nay,  even  the  mass  and  orbit,  of 
a  body  placed  beyond  the  sphere  of  vision."  This 
suggestion  led  at  least  one  of  the  mathematicians 
— Adams — perhaps  both  of  them,  to  calculate  the 
orbit  of  Neptune.  But,  though  this  prediction 
looks  like  an  intimation  of  genius,  Mary  Somerville 
never  believed  she  possessed  any  such  innate  power 
even  in  mathematics.  In  her  early  studies  she 
complains  of  unusual  difficulties  and  defeats  in  the 
simplest  calculations.  She  overcame  them  only  by 
persevering  industry.  If  she  had  genius  in  mathe- 
matics, yet  it  will  hardly  be  claimed  for  her  in  other 
respects;  but  she  was  an  accomplished  naturalist, 
linguist,  litUrateur,  musician,  and  painter.  Her 
attainments,  apart  from  her  knowledge  of  the  ab- 
stract sciences,  were  such  as  few  of  her  sex  have 
equaled,  but  they  were  the  results  of  persistent 
labor.  In  these,  at  least,  she  is  an  example  for  all 
aspiring  minds  —  a  resplendent  demonstration  of 
what  men  and  women  may  achieve  in  self-culture, 
though  controlled  by  the  ordinary  circumstances  of 


Mary  Somerville.  185 

life.  None  of  us  should  close  the  review  of  such  a 
career  without  an  exhilarating  sense  of  the  possibil- 
ities of  his  own  life,  or  without  the  determination 
that  henceforth  his  aims  shall  be  pitched  to  a  loftier 
flight  than  ever  before. 

The  law  of  our  nature  is  ascendant.  We  do  vio- 
lence to  it,  to  ourselves,  when  we  fail  to  advance, 
to  move  upward.  He  who  aims  at  the  sun  flies 
higher  than  he  who  aims  at  a  tree,  says  an  old 
proverb.  In  the  education  of  our  mental,  as  in  that 
of  our  spiritual,  capacities,  we  are  in  duty  bound  to 
press  toward  the  mark  of  the  prize  of  our  high  call- 
ing, as  beings  endowed  with  powers  that  are  eter- 
nally to  endure  and  to  expand. 


1 86  Character-Sketches. 


V. 

MADAME   DE   STAEL  AND    HER   GERMANY — WOMAN 
AND   LITERATURE. 

MADAME  DE  STAEL  is  known  to  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  public  chiefly  by  her  two  fictions, 
"  Delphine  '*  and  ''  Corinne,"  and  by  anecdotal  dis- 
paragements which  Napoleonic  partisan  writers 
have  assiduously  propagated  under  both  Empires. 
Hence  it  is  that  Anglo-Saxon  criticism,  respecting 
her  (always  excepting  a  few  of  the  highest  English 
authorities)  has  been  almost  uniformly  detractive. 
The  ordinary  critics,  apparently,  have  never  read 
the  books  which  her  own  countrymen  recognize  as 
her  greatest  works — works  which  produced  a  sen- 
sation throughout  Europe  three  quarters  of  a  cent- 
ury ago,  and  which  three  of  the  largest  Parisian 
publishing  houses  of  our  day  continue  to  issue.^ 
Were  we  to  judge  from  the  usual  English  and  Amer- 
ican criticisms,  we  must  suppose  her  to  be  an  obso- 
lete author ;  every  intelligent  Frenchman  knows, 
however,  that  her  books  are  still  as  vital  in  France 
as  those  of  any  other  writer  of  her  times ;  there 
is  no  circulating  library,  no  book  store,  hardly  a 
book  stall,   where   they  cannot   be    found.     They 

*  Charpentier  &  Cie  ;  Didot,  Freres  ;  and  Gamier,  Freres. 


Madame  de  Stael  and  iiek  Germany.     187 

have  been  issued  in  "complete  editions"  (originally 
in  seventeen  volumes)  at  an  average  of  every  twenty 
years  since  her  death ;  and  particular  works,  which 
seem  to  be  hardly  known  to  English  readers,  such 
as  those  on  Literature  and  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, are  frequently  re-issued.  The  greatest  au- 
thors suffer  a  sort  of  displacement  by  time,  but 
not  a  loss  of  worth,  or  rank ;  they  may  be  con- 
signed to  the  cemeteries  of  the  past,  but  not  to 
oblivion ;  their  writings  are  still  their  monuments, 
and,  like  those  of  the  Memphian  Kings,  may  be 
eternal  pyramids — out  of  date,  yet  never  out  of  rec- 
ognition. Madame  de  Stael's  works  have  been  pe- 
culiarly fortunate ;  they  are  neither  out  of  date  nor 
out  of  recognition  as  popular  books.  Her  essay 
on  "  Literature  considered  in  its  Relations  to  Social 
Institutions,"  which  Sir  James  Mackintosh  pro- 
nounced "  a  great  work,  the  first  attempt,  on  a 
bold  and  extensive  scale,  to  define  the  philosopjiy 
of  literature  ;  "  her  "  Considerations  on  the  French 
Revolution,"  which,  for  its  broad  and  profound 
views  of  civil  polity,  if  not  for  its  style,  is  worthy  of 
the  pen  of  Burke,  and  of  which  Villemain  said  that 
"  it  is  incredible  it  should  have  proceeded  from  the 
pen  of  a  woman ;  "  and  her  "  Allemagne,"  which 
Mackintosh  esteemed  "  the  most  elaborate  and 
masculine  production  of  the  faculties  of  woman," 
are  the  best  distinctions  of  her  rank  in  the  intellect- 
ual world.     These  works,  together  with    her    Co- 


1 88  Character-Sketches. 

rinne,  constitute  the  third  and  highest  series  of  her 
productions.  The  first  series  comprises  her  juvenile 
tales  and  her  ''  Letters  on  Rousseau,"  the  latter  be- 
ing her  first  published  book  ;  in  the  second,  or  inter- 
mediate class,  we  would  place  her  political  brochures, 
her  "  Plea  for  the  Queen,"  her  essays  on  Fiction  and 
Suicide,  her  dramas,  her  treatise  on  the  Passions, 
her  "  Ten  Years  of  Exile,"  and  her  Delphine. 
Though  this  classification  is  not  strictly  chronolog- 
ical, it  exhibits  the  intellectual  grade  of  her  works. 
To  most  ordinary  Anglo-Saxon  critics,  who  esti- 
mate her  by  the  imperfect  translations  of  her  Del- 
phine and  Corinne,  the  claim  made  for  her  by 
French  liberal  writers  and  by  some  high  English 
authorities  that  she  is  the  greatest  of  literary  women 
seems  ridiculous.  If  we  consider  her  simply  as  a 
Novelist  this  claim  may  not  be  tenable.  There 
are,  however,  but  two  writers  who  can  be  placed  in 
competition  with  her  in  this  respect.  The  French 
might  presume  to  claim  such  a  pre-eminence  for 
George  Sand,  the  English  for  George  Eliot ;  but 
could  these  women  have  written  the  philosophical 
essay  on  "  Literature,"  or  measured  themselves 
with  her  in  the  philosophic  statesmanship  of  the 
**  Considerations  on  the  French  Revolution  ?  "  Of 
the  latter  work  Sainte-Beuve,  acknowledged  to  be 
the  foremost  of  French  critics,  says  that  "  it  marks 
her  completeness,  her  highest  development ;  it 
made  her  the  historic    and    political    muse  of  the 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.    189 

period  ;  she  is  perfect  only  from  this  day ;  the  full 
influence  of  her  star  is  only  at  her  tomb.  Its  post- 
humous publication  was  an  event.  It  was  the 
splendid  obsequies  of  its  authoress."  And  he  af- 
firms that  "  the  nation  should  have  awarded  her  the 
obsequies  which  it  gave  to  Mirabeau." 

Besides  her  purely  literary  rank,  her  claims  as  an 
historical  character  are  manifold.  She  was  a  great 
social  power ;  by  almost  universal  consent  of  con- 
temporary witnesses,  her  conversational  eloquence 
was  unrivaled,  and  was  the  wonder  of  the  best 
circles  in  nearly  all  the  capitals  of  Europe.  As- 
suredly we  have  no  record  of  any  other  woman  who 
wielded  a  similar  social  sway,  for  as  many  years, 
from  Paris  to  St.  Petersburg,  from  London  to 
Rome.  Thirdly,  she  was  notable  as  a  philanthro- 
pist, and  her  good  deeds  in  this  respect  entitle 
her  to  a  place  by  the  side  of  Elizabeth  Fry  or 
Florence  Nightingale.  Through  all  the  terrors  of 
the  French  Revolution  she  was  the  most  active, 
of  recorded  persons,  in  the  rescue  of  the  proscribed  ; 
she  confronted  death  itself  for  this  purpose;  her 
Swiss  home  was,  for  years,  a  sort  of  public  asylum 
for  them ;  she  saved  more  lives  from  the  guillotine 
than  any  other  known  person.  Lastly,  like  many 
other  historic  French  women,  she  exercised  a  re- 
markable power  in  the  politics  of  her  times.  In 
spite  of  the  Salic  traditions  of  France,  women  have 
had  there  a  political  influence  which  they  have  had 


190  Character-Sketches. 

nowhere  else ;  Madame  de  Stael's  power,  in  this 
respect,  was  pre-eminent  from  her  first  introduction 
to  society,  under  the  administration  of  her  father, 
to  the  year  of  her  death.  All  these  considerations 
must  enter  into  any  just  estimate  of  her  rank  as  an 
historical  personage ;  and  it  is  simply  an  undenia- 
ble matter  of  fact  that  we  have  no  record  of  any 
woman,  in  literary  history,  who  can  be  compared 
with  her  in  these  respects.  The  language  of  one  of 
her  eulogists,  whom  some  of  our  critics  have  im- 
peached as  extravagant,  is  literally  true :  that  "  she 
was  the  greatest  of  literary  women,  greatest  by  the 
events  of  her  life,  if  not  by  her  literary  produc- 
tions." 

A  living  writer  (Demogeat)  whose  book  is  recom- 
mended by  French  University  Professors  as  among 
the  best  of  recent  critical  works  on  French  Lit- 
erature, and  has  passed  through  seventeen  edi- 
tions,* says:  "A  woman  opened  courageously  to 
letters  the  route  of  the  future  ;  and,  without  abdi- 
cating the  spirit  of  the  Revolution,  she  purified  it 
and  ennobled  it  by  a  splendid  aureole  of  religion 
and  poetry.  Never,  perhaps,  has  the  French  spirit 
displayed  itself  in  a  manner  more  complete  and 
more  admirable  than  in  the  person  of  Madame  de 
Stael.  Endowed  with  all  talents,  accessible  to  all 
true  ideas,  to  all  generous  emotions,  the  friend  of 
liberty,  passionate  for  the  elegancies  of  society  and 

*  Histoire  de  la  Litteraturc  Francaise.     Paris,  1880. 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.    191 

of  arts ;  ranging  over  all  regions  of  thought,  from 
the  severest  considerations  of  politics  and  philos- 
ophy to  the  most  brilliant  spheres  of  the  imagina- 
tion, she  united  the  most  diverse  elements,  but 
without  confusion  and  without  discord.  A  harmo- 
ny full  of  beauty  co-ordinated,  with  her,  all  the 
forces  of  the  mind  and  the  heart.  She  propagated 
spiritualism  without  sacrificing  the  cause  of  liberty. 
The  general  impression  of  her  works  is  something 
moral  and  beneficent.  In  all  parts  of  them  we  feel 
the  intimate  union  of  the  good  and  the  beautiful — 
it  is  one  of  the  effects  of  the  powerful  harmony  of 
this  noble  genius.  She  and  Chateaubriand  inaugu- 
rated together  the  intellectual  movement  of  our 
epoch.  By  them  the  nineteenth  century  projected 
its  programme."  Another  living  critic*  says:  **By 
the  power  of  her  faith  in  the  ideal,  and  of  her  love 
for  humanity,  she  has  united  two  epochs  which 
seemed  separated  by  an  abyss.  The  works  of  Ma- 
dame de  Stael  have  prepared  our  epoch ;  and  we 
can  say  that  she  resumes,  represents,  the  nineteenth 
century  as  Rousseau  does  the  eighteenth.  On  the 
one  hand,  she  knew,  in  its  plenitude,  the  life  of  the 
heart,  and  on  the  other,  she  was  directly  mingled 
with  the  great  facts  of  her  age ;  her  soul  was, 
therefore,  from  the  beginning,  at  the  very  center  of 
the  humanity  of  her  times." 

♦  Horung,  Professor  of  Jurisprudence  in  the  University  of  Geneva, 
See  Revue  Suisse,  1852. 


192  Character-Sketches. 

Such  was  the  woman  at  whose  name  not  a  few 
critics,  who  have  probably  never  read  her  principal 
works,  smile  with  affected  superiority  and  snap  their 
critical  fingers,  notwithstanding  the  highest  French 
literary  authorities  of  her  day  and  since  her  day, 
and  some  of  the  highest  English  ones,  have  affirmed 
her  supremacy  among  literary  women.  Though 
she  was  one  of  the  most  vigorous  thinkers  and 
most  beautiful,  womanly  souls,  she  has  often  been 
virtually  caricatured  as  a  sort  of  literary  sham,  a 
sentimental  Amazon,  an  obstreperous  talker,  a  *'  phi- 
losopher in  petticoats."  So  rife  have  been  these 
ungenerous  insinuations  throughout  the  English 
literary  world,  that  it  is  hardly  possible  for  an  En- 
glishman to  conceive  of  her  as  not  in  some  sense 
a  bizarre,  a  grotesque  character,  a  pedant,  if  not, 
indeed,  a  species  of  literary  charlatan.  No  concep- 
tion of  her  character  could  be  more  false,  more  con- 
trary to  the  profound  sincerity  and  integrity  of  her 
intellectual  nature — to  the  manliness  of  her  mind, 
the  womanliness  of  her  heart. 

There  are  two  decisive  tests  of  this  prejudiced 
judgment.  One  is  her  own  writings,  especially  those 
of  her  last  and  best  style,  as  above  stated.  Who  that 
opens  the  essay  on  '*  Literature,"  the  "Allemagne," 
or  the  **  French  Revolution,"  and  reads  but  a  chap- 
ter, does  not  feel  that  his  self-respect  requires  him 
to  respect  this  woman ;  to  admire  her  as  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  of  thinkers  ?     The  other  test    is 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.   193 

the  spontaneous  and  enthusiastic  interest  which 
the  highest  minds  of  her  day  felt  in  her  writings 
and  conversation.  Certainly  no  woman,  in  literary 
history,  ever  gathered  about  her  a  larger  or  more 
brilliant  circle  of  intellectual  men ;  and  no  such 
men  have  ever  been  more  fervent  in  their  admira- 
tion of  such  a  woman.  Who  were  these  men,  and 
how  do  they  compare  with  the  critics  of  a  later 
day,  who  disparage  her?  One  of  them,  who,  above 
all  others,  enjoyed  her  intimacy,  was  Benjamin 
Constant,  an  astute  statesman  and  critic,  a  man  of 
whom  George  Ticknor  said  that  he  had  more  sar- 
castic acuteness  and  wit  than  any  other  French- 
man since  Voltaire  ;  a  man  of  severest,  cynical  tem- 
perament, who  would  have  been  the  first  to  detect 
and  the  last  to  tolerate  a  literary  pretender.  But 
no  man  ever  admired  more  Madame  de  Stael.  He 
was  proud  to  be  the  organ  of  her  political  opinions 
in  the  French  Legislature ;  he  defended  her  in  the 
public  journals  ;  he  repelled  her  enemies  with  man- 
ly disdain ;  and,  crediting  her  with  the  highest 
conversational  powers  of  her  day,  he  claimed  for 
her  the  merit  of  being  as  good  a  listener  as  talker. 
The  sober-minded  historian,  Sismondi,  was  another 
of  her  intimate  and  life-long  associates,  and  at  her 
death  declared  that  "  to  no  other  woman  do  I  owe 
so  much  as  to  her."  Augustus  Schlegel,  one  of 
the  highest  German   critics  of  his  time,    lived  in 

daily  intercourse  with  her  for  fourteen  years,  and 
13 


194  '    Character-Sketches. 

affirmed  that  **  She  was  a  woman  great  and  mag- 
nanimous even  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  her  soul," 
and  that  he  learned  from  her  "  how  to  address  suc- 
cessfully the  European  public"  in  his  writings. 
Karl  Ritter,  the  noted  Berlin  professor,  always 
grave,  if  not  severe,  in  his  judgment,  said  that  "She 
constantly  gains  by  more  intimate  acquaintance, 
has  rare  goodness  of  heart  and  a  charming  sim- 
plicity ;  "  that  **  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life,  he 
had  never  felt  more  inspiration  "  than  under  her 
conversation.  "Her  analysis,"  he  adds,  "was  so 
clear,  her  illustrations  so  luminous,  her  positions  so 
crowded  with  ideas,  that  I  consider  her  conversa- 
tion one  of  the  most  interesting  facts  of  my  life. 
Her  intimate  friends  are  all  fascinated  by  her." 
Lacretelle,  the  historian,  fairly  worshiped  her,  and 
wrote,  "  Nature  had  denied  her  beauty,  but  had 
given  her  an  enchanting  voice  and  charming  eyes, 
which  reflected  all  the  sky  of  her  soul — a  sky  some- 
times stormy.  The  man  who  should  murmur 
against  her  lack  of  beauty  would  fall  at  her  feet 
dazzled  by  her  intellect ;  she  was  born  an  intellect- 
ual conqueror."  De  Gerando,  the  philosopher,  de- 
lighted in  her  conversation  and  correspondence, 
and  wrote,  in  the  language  of  Socrates  to  Anaxi- 
mandra,  "  You  seem  to  me  destined  to  become  the 
priestess  of  moral  truth  on  earth,  to  show  men  the 
sublime  path  to  the  beautiful  and  the  good."  The 
veteran  Swiss  sage,  Bonstetten,  who  knew  her  from 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.    195 

her  childhood,  wept  at  her  grave,  and  wrote  :  **Ah  ! 
I  cannot  believe  that  she  no  longer  lives.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  must  always  see  her  before  me. 
She  was  a  good,  a  beautiful  soul.  O  my  God,  when 
I  stand  before  this  tomb,  beneath  the  overhang- 
ing trees,  I  cannot  control  my  throbbing  heart ! " 
Barante..  the  historian  of  the  Dukes  of  Burgundy, 
Chateaubriand,  Villemain,  Faurriel,  and  indeed 
nearly  all  the  French  intellectual  men  of  her  day, 
excepting  the  Napoleonists,  thus  recognized  her: 
not  as  a  literary  pretender,  but  as  an  unrivaled 
woman,  a  colossal  mind,  a  beautiful  soul.  Now, 
we  may  soberly  ask,  Were  these  most  conspicuous 
literary  men  of  that  age  all  self-stultified  before 
this  woman — this  authoress  whose  pen  attempted, 
under  their  eyes,  the  highest  tasks,  and  at  whose 
attempts  foreign  superficial  critics  affect  a  sarcastic 
smile? 

Hostile  contemporary  opinions  of  her  we  know 
can  be  cited,  especially  from  Englishmen  and  Ger- 
mans ;  but  they  cannot  stand  before  the  more 
authentic  judgments  of  her  countrymen  who  knew 
more  intimately  both  herself  and  her  writings. 
Her  conversation  especially  was  misjudged  abroad. 
French  women  were  conventionally  authorized  to 
lead  conversation  in  the  salons  of  the  day.  They 
dominated  there  in  even  political  discussions.  They 
guided,  to  a  considerable  extent,  public  events  from 
these    famous    social    centers.      Their    power    and 


196  Character-Sketches. 

demeanor,  in  this  respect,  were  incomprehensible, 
if  not  offensive,  to  Germans  and  EngHshmen,  among 
whom  women  had  no  such  conventional  privileges. 
It  is  natural,  if  not  inevitable,  that  superior  talkers 
should  become  leaders  in  conversation  ;  society  con- 
cedes this  prerogative  to  them,  or  forces  it  upon 
them.  Mackintosh,  Sheridan,  Coleridge,  and  Ma- 
caulay  often  turned  conversation  into  monologue, 
and  admiring  circles  were  grateful  to  them  for  doing 
so.  It  is  admitted  that  Madame  de  Stael  was 
equal  to  any  of  them ;  our  own  Ticknor,  who  knew 
her  well,  says  that  she  had  no  equal  in  conversa- 
tional talent  in  Europe,  and  nearly  all  witnesses 
attest  this  fact.  She  may  have  felt  the  temptation 
to  use  it  to  excess,  though  her  friends  deny  the 
charge ;  but,  eh  bicn !  she  was  a  woman  ;  the  for- 
bearance accorded  to  men  could  not  be  extended  to 
her,  however  much  she  might  surpass  them.  Must 
there  not  be  sex  in  intellect  ?  Can  great  talent  and 
great  character  be  recognized  in  petticoats  and  tur- 
bans, as  well  as  in  frock-coats  and  stovepipe  hats  ? 

The  same  paltry  prejudice  has  depreciated  nearly 
all  her  other  just  claims.  Her  more  than  ten-years' 
struggle  against  Bonaparte  —  which,  as  a  simple 
matter  of  fact,  is  one  of  the  most  heroic  examples 
in  the  history  of  her  sex — has  been  caricatured  as 
the  caprice  of  a  woman  ambitious  for  notoriety.  It 
cost  her  two  millions  of  money — a  conceded  claim 
whkh   would   have  been   paid   at    any   moment    in 


Madamk  dk  Stael  AM)  hi:r  Germany,    kj; 

which  she  would  consent  to  be  reconciled  to  him  ; 
it  involved  her  dearest  friends  in  her  proscription 
and  exile  ;  it  sacrificed  not  only  the  pecuniary  for- 
tunes, but  the  careers,  of  her  children,  and  menaced 
her  with  imprisonment  in  Vincennes — all  this  for 
notoriety  by  a  woman  who  had  already  a  European 
reputation  !  There  could  be  no  high  principle  in 
her  patriotic  conduct !  A  patriot,  a  man,  thus  suf- 
fering for  the  liberties  of  his  country  and  the  rights 
of  mankind,  would  have  been  sublime  even  to  the 
smallest  critics;  but  here  the  question  is  about  a 
wo7nan ;  what  could  her  conduct  be  in  such  a  case 
but  a  sort  of  burlesque  ?  And  so  of  her  grievous 
mental  sufferings  under  this  imperial  and  prolonged 
persecution.  Her  anguish  is  ignoble  feebleness;  Cic- 
ero could  grieve,  in  his  letters  to  Atticus,  over  his 
exile,  but  he  was  dignified  ;  he  was  a  patriot,  a  man. 
Ovid  could  mourn,  broken-hearted,  over  his,  and 
fill  his  Tristia  with  very  sobs ;  but  is  not  this  gush- 
ing Corinne  a  woman  ?  What  could  banishment  be 
to  her  ?  What  the  loss  of  her  native  city,  and,  at 
last,  of  her  entire  country?  If  La  Fayette,  or  any 
other  patriotic  man,  had  suffered  similar  long  ban- 
ishment, and,  dying,  had  left  behind  him  records 
like  hers,  breathing  incessant  and  inappeasable  grief 
about  his  ostracism  and  his  country,  the  fact  would 
be  intelligible  enough  and  noble  enough  ;  no  excess 
of  anguish  for  such  a  privation  could  be  ignoble  in 
a  man,  a  patriot ;  but  in  a  woman !     To  be  sure, 


iqS  Character-Sketches*. 

she  was  a  somewhat  peculiar  woman ;  with  a  brain 
which  the  Parisian  anatomists  said,  after  her  death, 
was  larger  than  any  they  had  ever  found  among 
women ;  and  she  certainly  wrote  much  about  her 
country  and  politics — one  book,  at  least,  which  is 
Supposed  to  be  remarkable  for  its  statesmanship, 
and  which  it  is  thought  no  statesmen  of  her  day 
could  have  excelled ;  and  she  unquestionably  inter- 
meddled  continually  with  practical  politics,  hav- 
ing much  to  do  with  the  political  fortunes  of  Tal- 
leyrand, Narbonne,  Constant,  etc.,  influencing  not  a 
little  political  parties,  and  corresponding  with  Presi- 
dent Jefferson  and  other  leading  Americans,  as  well 
as  with  English  statesmen,  on  the  highest  political 
questions ;  and  it  is  true  also  that  Lamartine  called 
her  "  the  last  of  the  Romans  under  the  French 
Caesar,  who  dared  not  destroy  her,  and  could  not 
abase  her;"  and  declared  that,  after  the  Restora- 
tion, the  king  considered  "  her  an  ally  to  his  crown, 
because  she  represented  the  European  spirit,"  and 
that  "  her  salon,  in  Paris,  was  one  of  the  forces  of 
the  restoration  ;  "  and  Guizot  found  in  her  writings 
"  the  true  moral  atmosphere  of  politics,  outside  of 
which  there  is  no  vital  air;  "  and  Sainte-Beuve  rec- 
ognized her  as  **  the  founder  "  of  the  best  modern 
school  of  French  politics,  as  represented  by  the 
famous  journal,  "  The  Globe ;  "  but,  after  all,  we 
Anglo-Saxons  know  what  qualifications,  what  abate- 
ments, should  be  given  to  these  very  curious  facts, 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.  199 

for  \vc  know  that  she  was  a — woman.  Frenchmen, 
indeed,  and  some  of  the  greatest  of  them,  continue 
in  our  day  to  assert  with  preposterous  exaggera- 
tion her  greatness ;  Edmond  Scherer,  recognized 
as  among  the  first  of  Hving  French  critics,  while 
acknowledging  her  faults,  declares  that  "  the  his- 
tory of  this  woman,  at  once  so  masculine  and  so 
tender,  is  unique  in  literature,"  and  that  "  never 
has  a  mind  elevated  itself  more  naturally  to  the 
ideal ;  "  and  Laboulaye  has,  foolishly  enough,  called 
her  *'  the  most  remarkable  of  literary  women  ** — 
le  plus  reinarquable  dcs  fenimes  qui  ont  dcrit — and 
these  men,  to  be  sure,  know  more  about  her  writ- 
ings and  her  epoch  than  we  do ;  but  Anglo-Saxon 
"  common  sense  "  can  pronounce  on  them  and  their 
heroine. 

Some  of  her  Anglo-Saxon  critics  have  even 
stooped  to  imitate  the  pedagogic  criticism  of 
French  Napoleonic  writers  on  her  style.  Verbal 
criticism  could  tear  to  pieces  almost  any  of  our 
classics,  from  Chaucer  to  Johnson,  from  Johnson  to 
Carlyle,  and  with  plausible  enough  reason  regard- 
ing the  latter  writer,  as  we  have  admitted.  But 
finical  exactness,  in  this  respect,  is  seldom  a  char- 
acteristic of  great  writers ;  it  is  a  characteristic 
usually  of  mediocrity  or  pedantry.  Maximus  in 
minimus.  Hercules,  wielding  his  club,  would  dis- 
dain the  decorated  sword  of  the  courtier.  "  Style 
is  the   man,"   unquestionably;    but  it   is  style  of 


200  Character-Sketches. 

thought  rather  than  of  language,  however  desirable 
accuracy  and  elegance  may  be  in  the  latter.  Pre- 
tentious amateurs  can  point  out  anatomic  defects 
in  an  arm  of  Michael  Angelo's  **  Moses ; "  but  they 
dare  not  attempt  a  similar  work,  and  the  august 
statue  looks  down  serenely  upon  them  as  they 
tattle  their  small,  self-complacent  criticisms  around 
its  pedestal.  Intent  on  the  powerful  utterance  of 
her  thoughts,  Madame  de  Stael,  in  whose  writings 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  single  weak  passage, 
was  nevertheless  often  careless  of  her  verbal  con- 
structions; they  are  sometimes  involved  and  ob- 
scure. A  certain  class  of  writers,  who  would  have 
been  better  pedagogues  than  critics,  have  found 
delight  in  pointing  out  her  defects  of  this  kind,  the 
dehght  which  mosquitoes  might  take  in  buzzing 
about  the  ears  of  a  lioness.  The  Napoleonlst, 
Roederer,  set  the  example.  He  was  her  early 
friend,  and  favored  her  works  and  those  of  her 
associates,  Sismondi,  Constant,  etc.,  in  Paris  jour- 
nals ;  and  he  acknowledges  that,  in  the  days  of  his 
peril,  she  was  devoted  to  him,  and  offered  him 
money  and  shelter  at  Coppet.  He  became  a  fer- 
vent Bonapartist,  and  was  rewarded  by  his  master; 
was  made  a  Count  of  the  Empire,  a  Peer  of  France, 
embassador,  etc.  "  He  was  an  amateur  in  literature/* 
says  Sainte-Beuve,  ''  a  lover  of  thesis  and  of  para- 
dox." During  the  rest  of  his  life  he  ceased  not  to 
injure  his  old  friend  by  ''  faint  praise."     Capable  of 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.    201 

better  things,  he  became  himself  the  victim  of  his 
trivial  criticism,  his  pedantry,  and  love  of  paradox. 
To  prove  his  *'  thesis  "  that  *'  Madame  de  Stael  has 
great  talent  for  writing,  but  does  not  know  how  to 
write,"  he  laboriously  collected  from  her  works  a 
long  series  of  verbal  defects,  scores  of  them.  He 
became  a  member  of  the  Institute,  and  his  class,  of 
party  writers,  honored  him  highly.  Madame  de 
Stael's  writings  are,  to-day,  in  every  respectable 
library,  in  nearly  every  intelligent  family  of  her 
country;  after  his  death,  Roederer's  heirs  issued 
his  in  eight  octavos,  but  for  *'  limited  "  circulation  ; 
and  the  curious  reader  who  would  look  into  them 
will  seldom  find  them  except  on  the  shelves  of  the 
public  libraries,  and  there  usually  in  uncut  leaves. 
The  rights  of  intellect  are  indefeasible  in  spite  of 
many  faults — faults  which  inferior  minds  are  usually 
eager  to  notice  because  they  afford  some  grounds 
of  equality  between  themselves  and  the  superior 
objects  of  their  jealousy. 

Much  of  the  depreciation  of  Madame  de  Stael  by 
the  English  world  must  be  attributed  to  Byron's 
scoffs  at  her  conversation  in  London,  as  recorded 
by  Moore ;  but  Byron  himself  wonderingly  admired 
her  intellect  and,  later,  admired  her  social  power; 
and  at  last,  amid  his  orgies  in  Venice,  wrote,,  at 
her  death,  a  pathetic  eulogy  on  her  character.  Of 
course  such  a  man  could  never  wholly  surmount 
his  prejudices,  but  they  only  enhance  the  opinion 


202  Character-Sketches. 

he  gave  of  her  talent,  that  it  surpassed  that  of  any 
other  woman  in  Hterary  history.  The  Germans, 
especially  at  Weimar,  were  chafed  by  the  importu- 
nity of  her  conversation,  for  she  was  seeking  there 
materials  for  her  ^'AUemagne ; "  but  they  acknowl- 
edged her  talent,  and  in  the  language  of  Schiller, 
admitted  that  "  She  is  all  of  a  piece  ;  there  is  no 
false  or  foreign  element  in  the  mixture  ;  one  is, 
therefore,  in  spite  of  all  differences,  completely  at 
ease  with  her ;  one  can  listen  to  every  thing  from 
her  and  say  every  thing  to  her.  She  represents 
the  acme  of  French  culture — she  is  the  most  culti- 
vated, the  most  spirituelle,  of  women." 

The  questiqn  of  her  relative  position  among  liter- 
ary women  is  not  an  important  one ;  it  may  even 
be  said  to  be  trivial ;  for,  not  relative,  but  absolute, 
worth  must  finally  determine  all  claims  in  such  a 
case ;  and,  unfortunately,  the  restrictions  imposed 
by  conventional  prejudice  on  the  capabilities  of 
women,  have  heretofore  hardly  allowed  them  to 
produce  any  very  remarkable  works  of  literary  art, 
or  of  any  other  art.  But  some  of  the  contem- 
porary and  later  authorities  who  judged  her,  pro- 
nounced upon  her  comparative  merits  as  the  best 
expression  of  their  judgment,  and  have  thus  pro- 
voked no  small  amount  of  frivolous  criticism ; 
but  their  judgment  has  never  been  reversed,  and 
can  never  be,  by  an  appeal  to  the  historical  facts 
of  the  question  —  and  it   is,  finally,   but   a  simple 


Madamf.  i)e  Stael  and  hkr  Germany.    203 

question  of  fact.  The  opinions  of  these  judges 
are  as  relevant  as  they  are  interesting.  They  are 
not  advertising  or  journaHstic  recommendations; 
they  are  utterances  of  the  representative  men  of  an 
epoch  on  an  intellectual  phenomenon  of  "Their 
times;  and  intelligent  men  will  always  feel  inter- 
ested in  such  utterances  from  the  leading  minds  of 
other  times.  What  would  we  not  give  for  similar 
judgments  on  Shakspeare  from  the  representative 
intellects  of  his  age,  in  addition  to  those  we  have 
from  Ben  Jonson,  Milton,  and  a  few  others? 
Any  critic  who  would  write  honestly,  not  to  say 
generously,  about  Madame  de  Stael,  must  do  so  in 
the  spirit  of  these  contemporary  writers,  her  asso- 
ciates; for  they  are  his  real  authorities;  he  will 
doubtless  be  accused  of  extravagance,  but  he  need 
not  fear  the  charge ;  he  will  not  be  more  eulogistic 
than  they,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  cannot  be. 
They  freely  used  emphatic  epithets,  but  they  used 
them  because  they  believed  them  to  be  legitimate. 
They  knew  that  this  woman  was  altogether  a  phe- 
nomenal character  in  the  literary  history  of  her 
sex  ;  to  deny  this  fact  would  have  been  ridiculous 
to  them,  as  it  must  be  to  all  intelligent  readers  of 
her  chief  works. 

Allison  considered  her  "  the  first  of  female,  and 
second  to  few  male  authors."  Jeffrey,  of  the  **  Ed- 
inburgh Review,"  pronounced  her  "  the  greatest 
of  French  writers  since  the  time   of  Voltaire  and 


204  Character-Sketches. 

Rousseau."  Byron,  who  met  her  often  in  London, 
where  the  "Allemagne  "  was  first  published,  read  it 
with  admiration,  notwithstanding  his  cynical  opin- 
ions   of  women    of  literary    pretensions.      '*  What 

the shall   I   say  about  the  *  Germany?'"  he 

writes.  "  I  like  it  prodigiously.  I  read  her  again 
and  again."  "  She  is  the  first  of  female  writers  of 
this,  perhaps  of  any,  age,"  he  remarks  in  a  note  to 
his  Bride  of  Abydos.  He  writes  to  Murray :  "  I 
do  not  like  Madame  de  Stael,  but,  depend  upon  it, 
she  beats  all  your  natives  hollow  as  an  authoress, 
and  I  would  not  say  this  if  I  could  help  it.  .  .  . 
She  is  a  woman  by  herself,  and  has  done  more  than 
all  the  rest  of  them  together,  intellectually ;  she 
ought  to  have  been  a  man."  Vinet,  the  first  of 
modern  Swiss  thinkers,  devotes  a  whole  volume  in 
his  Course  of  French  Literature  to  her  and  Cha- 
teaubriand as  the  two  literary  representatives  of 
their  epoch  ;  and  from  his  high  theological  stand- 
point generously  appreciates  her  moral  influence 
on  her  age.  Sainte-Beuve  regards  her  as  the  repre- 
sentative woman  of  the  times  of  the  Revolution 
and  first  Empire,  and,  like  Vinet,  places  her  by  the 
side  of  Chateaubriand,  the  two  chiefs  of  French 
literature  since  the  period  of  Montesquieu,  Vol- 
taire, and  Rousseau  ;  but  he  admits  that  she  was 
''  richer  in  ideas  than  Chateaubriand."  We  hazard 
little  in  affirming  that  any  one  of  the  didactic 
works  of  Madame  de  Stael  (her  treatises   on   the 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.    205 

"Passions"  and  on  "Literature,"  the  **  Germany,  " 
etc.)  contains  more  original  and  profound  ideas 
than  can  be  gathered  from  all  the  writings  of  Cha- 
teaubriand. He  was  the  superior  painter,  she  the 
superior  thinker.  He  was  her  only  rival — "  Under 
the  Consulate  and  Empire,  rivals,"  says  Sainte- 
Beuve,  "but  since  accorded  a  common  admira- 
tion." Chateaubriand's  "  Genius  of  Christianity " 
gave  dclat  to  his  name ;  but  its  importance  arose 
principally  from  the  coincidence  of  the  book  with  a 
reaction  of  the  national  mind  from  the  materialistic 
skepticism  of  the  Revolution,  a  reaction  which  his 
work  doubtless  aided  among  a  limited  class,  but 
which  proceeded  from  antecedent  causes,  and  was 
essentially  a  tendency  of  the  political  reaction  of 
the  period.  This  fortunate  coincidence  has  ren- 
dered historical  and  enduring  a  work  the  false 
erudition  and  falser  logic  of  which  have  been 
redeemed  from  critical  contempt  only  by  its  sur- 
passing rhetoric,  and  its  art,  never  surpassed,  in  the 
painting  of  natural  sceties.*  The  "Genie  du  Chris- 
tianism  "  has  no  longer  any  rank  among  Christian 
"  apologetics."  "  It  is,"  says  Vinet,  "  too  much  for  a 
simple  poem,  too  little  for  an  apology ;  the  theolo- 
gian and  the  painter  mutually  embarrass  them- 
selves in  it ;  they  exchange  and  confound  their 
arguments."     It  was  a  plea  for  Christianism  more 

*  See  Macaulay's  rather  too  severe  judgment  on  the  Genie^  in  his 
Life  by  Trevelyan. 


2o6  Character-Sketches. 

than  for  Christianity.  It  aided  Napoleon  to  restore 
the  mediaeval  ecclesiasticism  of  France,  but  did  lit- 
tle for  the  rational  "  spiritualism,"  which  alone  can 
be  enduring,  and  of  which  Madame  de  Stael  was 
pre-eminently  a  representative  writer.  Lacretelle, 
who  passed  through  all  the  stages  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, and  was  himself  a  representative,  in  the  Acad- 
emy and  in  literature,  of  Christian  spiritualism,  says 
that  "  Madame  de  Stael,  born  in  the  midst  of  the 
philosophic  circles  of  the  times,  but  instructed  by  a 
father  and  a  mother  always  faithful  to  their  relig- 
ious sentiments,  and  inclined,  by  the  elevation  of 
her  soul  as  well  as  the  power  of  her  genius,  to 
spiritualism,  was  the  first  who  made  us  comprehend 
the  necessity  of  returning  to  this  high  philosophy." 
In  every  respect,  except  as  a  colorist,  her  rivalry 
with  Chateaubriand  (not  to  say  her  supremacy) 
may  be  asserted. 

Most  of  her  favorable  critics  esteem  the  Alle- 
magne  as  her  culminating  literary  production. 
Though  we  place  her  French  Revolution  higher, 
we  may  take  the  AUemagne  as  the  best  illustra- 
tion of  her  varied  powers,  the  best  exponent  of  her 
literary  history  and  personality.*  "  It  was,"  says 
Vinet,  *'  an  enterprise  of  reaction  against  a  triple 


*  This  paper,  except  the  preceding  pages,  was  published  before 
the  writer's  "  Life  and  Times  of  Madame  de  Stael;"  its  chief  facts 
will  be  found  scattered  through  the  latter  work  with  all  necessary 
marginal  verifications,  passim. 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.  207 

despotism,  of  a  man  in  politics,  a  sect  in  philos- 
ophy, and  a  tradition  in  literature."  "A  book," 
says  Lamartine,  **  through  which  she  has  poured 
and,  as  it  were,  filtrated  all  the  resources  of  her 
soul,  of  her  imagination,  of  her  religion." 

The  history  of  the  "Allemagne"  is  extremely  in- 
teresting. It  was  not  a  temporary  book,  to  be  ren- 
dered obsolete  by  time,  as  its  title  might  seem  to 
imply— no  more  so  than  the  Germania  of  Taci- 
tus. It  is  stamped  with  genius,  and  genius  is  essen- 
tially immortal.  In  our  endeavor  to  trace  its  his- 
tory, as  best  illustrating  her  own,  we  must  claim  the 
forbearance  of  the  reader,  for  the  task  has  never 
before  been  attempted,  so  far  as  we  know.  It  will 
necessarily  be  somewhat  discursive,  as  it  must  ex- 
tend over  much  of  the  period  of  the  long  exile  of 
the  authoress.  The  complete  history  of  the  book 
would  require  us  to  accompany  her  in  her  travels  in 
Germany,  where  she  made  her  preliminary  studies 
for  it,  especially  at  Weimar,  with  Goethe,  Schiller, 
and  Wieland  ;  to  restore  the  literary  coteries  of  her 
chateau  at  Coppet,  on  the  shore  of  the  Leman, 
where  its  pages  were  discussed  by  Sismondi,  Schle- 
gel,  Barante,  Bonstetten,  Werner,  and  many  other 
brilliant  men,  who  were  among  the  best  thinkers 
of  the  period ;  and,  in  fine,  to  reproduce  much  of 
the  contemporary  criticism  and  literary  gossip,  and 
of  the  correspondence  that  passed  between  Coppet, 
Weimar,  the  salcm  of  Madame  Recamier  at  Paris, 


2o8  Character-Sketches. 

and  that  of  the  Countess  of  Albany  (wife  of  Charles 
Edward,  the  British  Pretender)  in  the  Casa  d'Alfieri 
at  Florence,  for  these  were  then  the  intellectual 
centers,  the  literary  courts,  of  Europe,  and  main- 
tained intimate  relations.  A  more  attractive  range 
of  literary  research  could  hardly  be  desired,  but  we 
are  compelled  to  confine  ourselves  to  some  of  its 
most  salient  points. 

The  Allemagne  was  a  result,  and  also  a  further 
provocation,  of  that  remarkable  persecution  with 
which  Napoleon  pursued  its  writer  through  her 
"  ten  years  of  exile,"  a  persecution  which  has  hard- 
ly had  a  parallel  in  literary  history,  and  which  at 
last  afforded  to  the  world  one  of  the  best  examples 
on  record  of  the  triumph  of  the  pen  over  the  scep- 
ter and  the  sword.  She  had  passed  through  all 
the  stages  of  the  Revolution,  from  its  very  incep- 
tion. She  abhorred  its  excesses,  but  never  aban- 
doned the  essential  principles  of  political  reform, 
of  popular  liberty,  which  it  promulgated,  and  which, 
in  spite  of  its  atrocities,  have  rendered  it,  in  the 
estimation  of  impartial  writers,  the  epoch  of  mod- 
ern history ;  unless-,  indeed,  we  must  assume  as 
that  epoch  the  great  event  which  initiated  it — the 
North  American  Revolution.  Though  she  always 
insisted  that  she  had  no  **  animal  courage,"  she  had 
superlative  moral  courage,  and  faced  bravely  the 
worst  horrors  of  the  revolutionary  terrorism  to  save 
her  friends,  and  in  some  instances  her  enemies,  from 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.    209 

the  guillotine.  She  was  dragged  through  the  jcer- 
ine  mobs  of  the  streets  of  Paris  to  the  tribunal  of 
Robespierre,  passed  into  the  Hotel  de  Ville*under 
an  arch  of  pikes,  was  struck  at  on  the  stairs  by- 
one  of  the  mob,  and  saved  from  death  only  by 
the  sword  of  the  gendarme  who  conducted  her 
and  averted  the  blow.  She  thus  came  near  being 
the  first  female  victim  of  the  Revolution.  On  the 
next  day  the  beautiful  Princess  de  Lamballe  be- 
came its  first  feminine  sacrifice,  amid  bloody  orgies, 
which  history  has  hardly  dared  to  record—  hewed 
into  pieces,  one  of  her  limbs  shot  from  a  cannon, 
and  her  heart  and  head  borne  on  the  points  of 
sabers  through  the  streets  in  what  has  been  called 
**an  infernal  march."  Fleeing  to  her  Swiss  home 
at  Coppet,  Madame  de  Stael  made  her  chateau,  as 
we  have  said,  an  asylum  for  the  proscribed.  It  was 
crowded  with  refugees  for  some  years.  No  man  or 
woman  rescued  a  greater  number  of  such  sufferers. 
M.  de  Jacours  knew,  personally,  at  least  twenty 
whom  she  saved  from  death.  No  one  was  more  emi- 
nently the  heroine  of  the  Revolution  than  she,  not 
excepting  Madame  Roland.  But  on  coming  out 
of  its  terrors  she  affirmed,  down  to  her  last  hour, 
the  genuine  rights  of  the  people,  which  it  had  so 
emphatically  asserted  and  so  much  abused.  When 
almost  every  conspicuous  literary  character  remain- 
ing in  France  had  compromised  with  the  usurpations 

of  Napoleon,  she  was  still  loyal  to  liberty.     When 
14 


2 1  o  Character-Sketches. 

even  her  most  intimate  associates,  political  as  well 
as  literary — Benjamin  Constant,  Sismondi,  Lacre- 
telle,  Barante,  Chateaubriand — had  fallen  away,  she 
and  her  friend.  La  Fayette,  still  stood  erect  for  repub- 
licanism, and  stood  almost  alone.  **  Liberty,"  she 
wrote  to  General  Moreau,  **  must  always  be  the  no- 
blest idea  and  force  of  great  souls;  we  must  never 
disparage  it  on  account  of  its  abuses;  if  we  aban- 
don it  we  give  up  the  hope  of  the  world." 

She  would  not,  because  she  could  not  consist- 
ently with  the  instincts  of  her  genius  and  of  her 
generous  heart,  compromise  with  Napoleon.  At 
first  she  shared  the  universal  enthusiasm  of  France 
for  the  young  conqueror  of  Italy.  He  professed 
entire  loyalty  to  the  republic.  She  hailed  him  as 
the  restorer  of  order  and  the  protector  of  freedom. 
But  in  conversations  with  him  she  detected,  as  by 
the  intuition  of  her  genius,  his  ulterior  designs. 
He  perceived  that  he  was  detected,  and  tried  to 
win  her.  Through  his  brothers,  Joseph  and  Lu- 
cien,  he  made  her  tempting  offers.  He  proposed 
even  to  pay  her  the  debt  of  the  Government  for 
two  millions  loaned  by  her  father,  an  honest  debt 
formally  acknowledged  by  the  Government,  but 
which  he  afterward  refused  to  pay,  and  which  she 
recovered  only  after  his  downfall.  It  was  a  splen- 
did opportunity  for  her  and  her  sons ;  but  she 
never  wavered.  She  could  not  sacrifice  her  polit- 
ical principles,  for,  w4th  her,  they  were  moral  con- 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.  211 

victions.  She  chose  rather  to  wander,  a  proscribed 
exile,  over  Europe  through  all  the  years  of  the  im- 
perial reign.  Napoleon  came  to  fear  this  solitary 
woman  of  genius  more  than  any  royal  antagonist 
on  the  Continent.  He  could  appreciate  her  singu- 
lar intellectual  power,  though  on  the  island  of  St. 
Helena  he  maliciously  attempted  to  depreciate  it ; 
but  even  there  he  acknowledged  to  Las  Cases  that 
"she  will  last."  For  years  he  persisted  in  attempts 
to  conciliate,  that  is  to  say,  bribe  her.  His  brother 
Joseph  (her  cordial  friend)  was  repeatedly  used  for 
this  purpose ;  the  French  prefects  at  Geneva,  in- 
structed by  the  Minister  of  Police,  frequented 
Coppet  to  importune  her  to  recognize  him  in  her 
writings — to  say  something,  **  in  the  style  of  Co- 
rinne,"  for  him,  or  for  the  infant  king  of  Rome ; 
she  was  assured  it  would  end  her  exile  and  restore 
the  fortunes  of  her  family.  She  said  nothing 
against  him  in  her  writings,  (nothing  directly  hos- 
tile, at  least,)  but  she  would  say  nothing  for  him. 
To  have  favored  him  would  have  been,  in  her 
opinion,  recreance  not  only  to  France,  but  to  the 
human  race. 

But  though  she  wrote  nothing  against  him,  the 
tacit  opposition  of  such  a  character  was  an  insuf- 
ferable grievance  to  his  egotism  ;  and,  then,  she 
was  the  most  eloquent  talker  in  France,  and  her 
saion,  at  Coppet  or  in  Paris,  was  a  social  and  polit- 
ical center,  where  gathered  not  only  all  the  higher 


2 1 2  Character-Sketches. 

elements  of  the  opposition,  but  the  best  minds  of 
Paris  and  the  leading  diplomatists  of  Europe. 
"  No  one  enters  her  salon;'  said  Napoleon,  "  who 
does  not  leave  it  my  opponent."  "  Coppet  is  an 
arsenal  furnishing  arms  against  me  to  all  Europe." 
He  could  hardly  have  paid  her  a  higher  compli- 
ment. She  was,  in  fact,  the  oracle  of  the  oppo- 
sition ;  and  her  friend,  Benjamin  Constant,  one  of 
the  most  effective  publicists  of  the  day,  was,  as  we 
have  intimated,  her  representative  in  the  Legisla- 
ture. At  her  instance  he  delivered  a  speech  against 
the  monarchical  designs  of  Napoleon.  The  even- 
ing before  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  *'  You  see  your 
salon  crowded  ;  if  I  speak  to-morrow  it  will  be  de- 
serted. Think  again."  "  It  is  necessary  to  follow 
our  convictions,"  was  her  only  reply.  On  the  next 
evening,  which  had  been  appointed  for  a  special 
gathering,  all  her  usual  guests  were  absent.  They 
sent  apologies,  and  recoiled  before  the  rising  power 
of  the  First  Consul.  Fouch^,  the  head  of  police, 
went  to  her  and  advised  her  to  "  retire  into  the 
country,  and  in  a  few  days  all  would  be  appeased." 
"  But  on  my  return,"  she  says,  "  I  found  it  quite 
otherwise."  She  knew,  however,  that  an  invincible 
power  remained  in  her  otherwise  feeble  woman's 
hand — the  pen.  She  resolved  to  vindicate  by  it 
her  claims  to  social  and  public  recognition.  In 
this  time  of  desertion  and  of  the  worst  chagrins 
that  a  woman  can  suffer,  she  composed  her  essay 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.  213 

on  **  Literature."  It  produced  an  immediate  and 
surprising  impression.  No  woman  had  ever  at- 
tempted so  elaborate  a  literary  work.  **  Its  suc- 
cess," she  says,  **  entirely  restored  my  position  in 
society ;  my  salon  was  again  filled."  Without  a 
word  for  or  against  Napoleon,  it  was  a  plea  for  lib- 
erty as  the  best  basis  of  literature  and  all  social 
ameliorations.  It  asserts  the  doctrine  of  the  per- 
fectibility of  the  race.  "  I  adopt  this  doctrine,"  she 
says  in  her  introduction,  "  with  all  my  faculties.  It 
is  the  conservative,  the  redeeming  hope  of  the  in- 
tellectual world."  It  was  Vico's  theory  of  the  phi- 
losophy of  history  better  applied  ;  he  applied  it  to 
monarchy,  she  to  republicanism.  Her  social  tri- 
umph was  complete  ;  her  salon  was  again  thronged 
by  the  best  Parisian  society  and  the  diplomatic 
representatives  of  Europe  ;  even  Napoleon's  broth- 
ers, Joseph  and  Lucien,  could  not  be  kept  away. 
Napoleon  could  never  forgive  her;  she  had  struck 
at  all  his  hidden  designs.  He  waited  and  watched 
for  his  opportunity  of  revenge. 

Necker,  her  father,  not  long  afterward  published 
his  **  Last  Views  of  Politics  and  Finance."  She  was 
with  him,  at  Coppet,  at  the  time,  and  Napoleon 
falsely  attributed  it  to  her.  Necker  wished  him  to 
be  a  Washington  for  France.  This  would  never  do. 
He  sent  an  order  to  him  to  let  politics  alone,  and 
threatened  his  daughter  with  banishment.  She  sub- 
sequently ventured  furtively  back  toward  the  capi- 


214  Character-Sketches. 

tal,  and  hired  a  house  ten  leagues  from  it  where  her 
friends  again  flocked  to  her.  Napoleon  was  told  that 
she  was  holding  court  there,  and  seized  the  occasion 
as  a  pretext  for  exiling  her.  She  was  informed  that 
a  gendar^ne  would  soon  take  charge  of  her  and  her 
children.  He  tortured  her  with  delays.  Unable 
to  bear  this  painful  suspense,  she  recalled,  with 
hope,  the  image  of  a  friend,  the  loveliest  woman  in 
soul  as  well  as  in  person  then  in  Europe,  of  whom 
the  good  Duke  of  Montmorency  had  said  that  he 
**  loved  her  as  an  angel  on  earth," — one  whose  tran- 
scendent beauty  produced  a  sensation  in  the  streets 
wherever  she  passed,  converged  upon  her  the  gaze 
of  public  assemblies  even  when  Napoleon  himself 
was  speaking,  and  was  excelled  only  by  the  grace  of 
her  manners  and  the  purity  of  her  heart — a  woman 
who  subdued  the  jealousy  of  women  as  well  as  the 
passion  of  men,  "  invincibly  protected  by  the  aure- 
ole of  virtue  which  always  surrounded  her;"  whose 
*'  presence  anywhere  was  an  event,  and  produced  a 
tumult  of  admiration,  of  curiosity,  of  enthusiasm;'* 
even  the  common  people  in  public  places  calling 
upon  her  with  shouts  to  rise,  that  they  might  pay 
their  homage  to  beauty  in  her  person ;  who,  when 
it  was  known  that  she  was  to  be  a  collector  for  a 
public  charity  at  St.  Roche,  found  it  impossible  to 
make  her  way,  without  assistance,  through  the 
throng  that  crowded  the  aisles,  stood  upon  chairs, 
hung  upon  the  pillars,  mounted  even  the  altars  of 


Madami:  dk  Stakl  and  iii:r  G  human  v.    215 

the  side  chapels,  and  gave  twenty  thousand  francs, 
more  for  the  sight  of  her  than  for  the  sacred  design 
of  the  occasion  ;  who  enchanted  all  men  that  behold 
her,  yet  by  her  moral  fascination  compelled  them  to 
abandon  lower  hopes  for  her  coveted  esteem  and 
her  self-respectful  friendship;  who  declined  the 
proffered  hearts  of  princes,  and  even  the  possibility 
of  a  throne,  that  she  might  maintain  the  obligations 
of  a  marriage  of  "  convenience,"  made  when  she 
was  but  fifteen  years  old  with  a  man  who  was  forty- 
two  ;  and  who,  when  her  opulent  fortune  was  lost, 
and  after  the  Restoration  had  re-established  the 
factitious  distinctions  of  society,  and  even  in  old  age 
and  blindness,  could  still  hold  spell-bound  around 
her  the  ditc  society  of  Paris.  "  She  was,"  says  her 
niece  and  biographer,  who  knew  her  most  intimate 
life,  "  devoted,  sympathetic,  indulgent,  self-respect- 
ful. You  found  with  her  consolation,  strength, 
balm  for  suffering,  guidance  in  the  great  resolutions 
of  life  ;  she  had  a  passion  for  goodness."  She  was, 
says  another  authority,  ''  an  incomparable  being  in 
all  respects.  Her  charming  qualities  had  something 
so  peculiar  that  they  can  never  be  perfectly  de- 
scribed. Only  scattered  traits  of  her  supreme  grace 
can  be  given."  Napoleon  himself  was  smitten  by 
her  charms,  and,  through  Fouch6,  persecuted  her 
with  his  importunities  to  induce  her  to  become  a 
lady  of  his  court,  {''dame  de  palais ;'')  but  she  dis- 
liked the  man,  and  declined  the  brilliant  offer.     He 


2i6  Character-Sketches. 

seized  the  first  opportunity  of  involving  her  in  the 
exile  of  Madame  de  Stael,  compelHng  her  to  leave 
her  family  and  the  charmed  circle  of  her  innumer- 
able Parisian  friends,  and  wander  obscurely  in  the 
southern  provinces  and  Italy  for  years.  It  was  a 
remarkable  coincidence  that  in  these  degenerate 
times  two  women,  one  the  most  beautiful,  the 
other  the  most  intellectual,  in  modern  history, 
should  appear  in  the  same  country,  and  should  be 
united  in  an  inseparable  sisterhood.  Through  all 
the  remainder  of  Madame  de  Stael's  life  Madame 
Recamier  was  her  most  intimate  feminine  friend, 
and  consoled  her  in  her  last  hours. 

She  now  found  shelter  under  her  friend's  roof  at 
Saint-Brice.  But  the  gendarme  reached  her  at  last, 
bringing  an  order,  signed  by  Napoleon,  and  requir- 
ing her  to  depart  within  twenty-four  hours.  After 
harassing  trials  she  escaped  to  Germany,  and  thus 
did  her  great  enemy  open  the  way  for  the  produc- 
tion of  one  of  her  greatest  literary  monuments,  the 
"Allemagne,"  the  work  which,  by  a  striking  coinci- 
dence, was  to  crown  her  fame  in  the  very  year  in 
which  the  crown  was  to  fall  from  his  head.  We  are 
tempted  to  follow  her  in  its  preparatory  studies 
there,  but  our  limits  forbid.  She  observed  with  the 
eyes,  the  insight,  of  genius  every  aspect  of  German 
life  and  literature.  At  Weimar  she  learned  the 
German  language,  and  astonished  and  perplexed 
Goethe  and  Schiller  by  her  remarkable  conversation, 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.  217 

and  her  virile  intellect  so  strongly  contrasted  with 
the  vivacity,  the  abandon,  of  her  womanly  heart ;  for 
the  real  problem  of  her  character  was  the  fact  th  t 
in  her  were  combined  the  intellect  of  man  with  the 
heart  of  woman.  She  remained  three  months  in 
the  little  literary  court  of  Weimar,  and  the  grand 
duchess,  Louise,  became  her  life-long  correspondent. 
She  traveled  over  much  of  Germany,  and  studied 
well  its  higher  life  in  the  court  of  Berlin,  where  she 
was  received  with  much  distinction.  An  import- 
ant event  in  her  life  was  the  friendship  she  formed, 
in  the  Prussian  capital,  with  Augustus  Schlegel,  one 
of  the  greatest  of  living  critics,  who  thenceforward 
was  a  member  of  her  household  down  to  the  year  of 
her  death. 

The  death  of  Necker  recalled  her,  heart-broken, 
to  Coppet,  where  her  health  gave  way.  Proscribed 
in  France,  she  sought  relief  in  Italy,  accompanied 
by  her  children,  Schlegel,  and,  part  of  the  time,  by 
Sismondi.  Genius  alone  knows  the  philosopher's 
stone  that  turns  every  thing  to  gold  ;  her  travels  in 
Italy  produced  "Corinne."  On  her  return  she  vent- 
ured again,  clandestinely,  to  within  some  leagues 
of  Paris,  to  publish  it.  The  prefect  of  the  Seine- 
Inferiiur  was  afterward  dismissed  for  treating  her 
wdth  courtesy.  But  her  intellect  was  again  to  tri- 
umph. Suddenly  there  broke  in  upon  her  almost 
utter  solitude  the  burst  of  enthusiasm  with  which 
Europe  hailed  the  appearance  of  "  Corinne."     **  It 


2i8  Character-Sketches. 

was  one  of  the  greatest  events  of  the  epoch,"  says 
Vinet.  "  It  carried  all  suffrages,"  says  the  Biog- 
raphie  Universelle.  '*  There  was  but  one  voice,  one 
cry  of  admiration  in  lettered  Europe,  at  its  appear- 
ance," says  her  cousin,  Madame  Necker  de  Saussure. 
Napoleon,  whose  egotism  was  as  petulant  as  his 
ambition  was  great,  was  mortified  by  this  success. 
The  official  journals  attacked  the  book,  and  Ville- 
main  says  that  Napoleon  himself  wrote  the  hostile 
criticism  of  the  Moniteur,  But  neither  his  scepter 
nor  his  pen  could  touch  the  indefeasible  honors 
of  her  genius.  She  stood  out  before  all  Europe 
crowned,  like  her  own  Corinne,  on  the  capital  of  the 
world.  But  he  could  still  annoy  and  oppress  her, 
and  he  now  resumed  his  persecutions  of  not  only 
herself,  but  of  her  dearest  friends,  with  incredible 
minuteness,  cruelty,  and  perseverance.  He  renewed 
her  exile.  She  went  to  Coppet,  where  a  court  of 
the  best  minds  of  Europe  gathered  about  her;  and 
then  again  to  Germany,  to  resume  her  preparations 
for  the  Allemagne ;  to  Weimar,  to  Berlin,  to  Vienna, 
accompanied  by  Schlegel,  Sismondi,  and  Constant. 
Her  progress  was  an  ovation ;  but  the  Germans 
hardly  knew  what  to  think  of  her.  With  their 
views  of  woman,  so  different  from  those  which 
Tacitus  attributed  to  their  ancestors,  they  were  dis- 
posed at  first  to  wonder  at  her,  then  to  be  equivo- 
cally sarcastic,  but  at  last  to  both  wonder  and  ad- 
mire.     They  could  never,  however,    entirely  sur- 


Madame  de  Stael  and  m:u  Germany.   219 

mount  their  first  opinion,  that  there  must  be  some- 
thing inadmissible  in  such  high  intellectual  claims 
on  the  part  of  a  woman,  and  she  a  French  woman. 
Her  books,  indeed,  surprised  them,  and  her  conver- 
sation fairly  dazzled  their  slower  wits ;  but  she  was 
so  subtle,  so  oracular !  The  Pythoness  might  be- 
long to  classic  Greece,  but  could  not  come  out  of 
France. 

The  American  scholar,  George  Ticknor,  met  at 
Berlin,  some  thirty  years  later,  the  old  prime-minis- 
ter, Ancillon,  who  told  him  a  characteristic  anecdote 
of  her  visit  to  that  city.  He  said  :  "  When  she  was 
here  she  excited  a  great  sensation,  and  had  the  men 
of  letters  trotted  up  and  down,  as  it  were,  before 
her  successively,  to  see  their  paces.  I  was  present 
when  Fichte's  turn  came.  After  talking  a  little 
while  she  said,  *  Now,  Monsieur  Fichte,  will  yop  be 
so  kind  as  to  give  me,  in  fifteen  minutes  or  so,  a 
sort  of  idea,  ox  apercu,  of  your  system,  so  that  I  may 
know  clearly  what  you  mean  by  your  ich^  (I,)  your 
vioi,  (me,)  for  I  am  entirely  in  the  dark  about  it?* 
The  notion  of  explaining  in  a  little  quarter  of  an 
hour,  to  a  person  in  total  darkness,  a  system  which 
he  had  been  all  his  lifetime  in  developing  from  a 
single  principle  within  himself,  and  spinning,  as  it 
were,  from  his  own  bowels,  till  its  web  embraced 
the  whole  universe,  was  quite  shocking  to  the  phil- 
osopher's dignity.  However,  being  much  pressed, 
he  began,  in  rather  bad   French,  to  do  the  best  he 


220  Character-Sketches. 

could.  But  he  had  not  gone  on  more  than  ten 
minutes  before  Madame  de  Stael,  who  had  followed 
him  with  the  greatest  attention,  interrupted  him 
with  a  countenance  full  of  eagerness  and  satisfac- 
tion :  '  Ah  !  it  is  sufficient — I  comprehend — I  com- 
prehend you  perfectly,  Monsieur  Fichte :  your  sys- 
tem is  perfectly  illustrated  by  a  story  in  Baron 
Munchausen's  travels.'  Fichte  looked  like  a  trag- 
edy; the  faces  of  the  rest  of  the  company  like  a 
comedie  larmoyante.  Madame  de  Stael  heeded 
neither,  but  went  on  :  '  For,  when  he  arrived  once 
on  the  banks  of  a  vast  river,  where  there  was 
neither  bridge  nor  ferry,  nor  even  a  poor  boat  or 
raft,  he  was  at  first  quite  confounded,  quite  in 
despair,  until,  at  last,  his  wits  coming  to  his  assist- 
ance, he  took  a  good  hold  of  his  own  sleeve,  and 
jumped  himself  over  to  the  other  side.  Now,  Mon- 
sieur Fitche,  this,  I  take  it,  is  just  what  you  have 
done  with  your  ich,  your  moi,  is  it  not?'  There 
was  so  much  truth  in  this,  and  so  much  esprit^  that, 
of  course,  the  effect  was  irresistible  on  all  but  poor 
Fichte  himself.  As  for  him,  he  never  forgave 
Madame  de  Stael,  who  certainly,  however,  had  no 
malicious  purpose  of  offending  him,  and  who,  in 
fact,  praised  him  and  his  ich  most  abundantly  in 
her  De  rAllemagner 

In  June,  1808,  she  was  again  at  Coppet,  working 
on  the  Allemagne.  Baron  von  Vogt,  a  man  of  in- 
tellect, was  there  assisting  her  by  his  conversations ; 


Madame  de  StaEl  and  her  Germany.   221 

Sismondi  was  there,  preparing  the  fifth  volume  of 
his  Italian  Republics ;  Schlegel  was  there,  busy  in 
the  preparation  of  his  Lectures  on  Dramatic  Art 
for  publication  at  Heidelberg;  Constant  was  there, 
preparing  his  Wallenstein  for  the  press.  Matthieu 
de  Montmorency  spent  some  time  there,  and  no 
man  was  more  welcome.  Etienne  Dumont,  the  as- 
sociate of  Mirabcau,  (some  of  whose  best  speeches 
ho  composed,)  afterward  the  friend  and  editor  of 
Jeremy  Bentham,  was  there,  casually  at  least. 
Madame  Recamier  cheered  her  friend  by  frequent 
letters,  and  by  the  promise  of  a  visit  and  of  her 
company  in  another  journey  to  Vienna.  Letters 
passed  often  between  Weimar  and  Coppet ;  the 
Duchess  Louise,  esteemed,  since  the  battle  of  Jena, 
with  Napoleon's  own  acknowledgment,  as  one  of 
the  great  characters  of  the  times,  kept  up  her  cor- 
respondence with  the  authoress,  and  the  marble 
bust  of  the  latter,  by  Tieck,  was  honored  with  a 
place  in  the  palace  of  Weimar.  The  Allemagne 
was  under  incessant  discussion  in  the  conversations 
and  correspondence  of  the  chateau.  Three  years 
(1808,  1809,  and  1 8 10)  were  devoted  to  its  compo- 
sition, six  years  in  all  to  its  preparation.  Sismondi, 
writing  to  the  Countess  of  Albany,  (September  6, 
1809,)  says:  "She  has  completed  about  a  quarter 
of  the  work ;  but  that  which  is  written  appears  to 
me  superior  to  any  thing  that  we  have  yet  had 
from  her  pen.     It  is  not  like  *  Corinne,*  the  frame 


222  Character-Sketches. 

of  a  romance  in  which  observations  on  national 
character  are  presented ;  she  treats  directly  her 
subject,  and  handles  it  with  a  force  that  no  one 
would  expect  in  a  woman.  There  is  a  truly  admi- 
rable depth  in  its  judgments  of  national  traits,  in  its 
intellectual  pictures,  etc.  Nothing  so  new,  so  im- 
partial, and  so  penetrating  has  yet  been  written,  I 
think,  on  the  character  of  any  nation."  "  This, 
doubtless,  will  be  her  best  work,"  wrote  Baron  von 
Vogt  to  Madame  Recamier. 

When  it  was  completed  she  again  entered  France 
to  publish  it,  but  kept  at  the  prescribed  distance  of 
forty  leagues  from  the  capital.  She  obtained  the 
necessary  authorization  of  the  Censorship,  after 
the  elimination  of  a  few  sentences.  Her  prefer- 
ence of  Goethe's  '*  Iphigenia  "  over  that  of  Racine 
had  to  be  quafified,  and,  among  other  suppressions, 
was  that  of  a  passage  in  which  she  described  Ger- 
many, deprived  of  liberty,  as  a  temple  which  fails 
of  columns  and  roof.  When  it  was  printed,  Napo- 
leon changed  his  mind  ;  the  French  had  conquered 
Germany,  but  he  was  not  mentioned  in  the  book. 
The  ten  thousand  printed  copies  were  cut  into 
pieces,  and  converted  into  pasteboard,  and  she  was 
ordered  to  leave  France  immediately.  A  hint  was 
given  her,  by  the  Minister  of  Police,  of  imprison- 
ment in  Vincennes,  where  the  Due  d'Enghien  had 
been  murdered  by  her  persecutor.  ''  Ah,  my  God  !  " 
she  wrote  to  Madame  Recamier,  **  I  am  the  Orestes 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.   223 

of  Exile,  and  fate  pursues  me !  "  She  was  in  de- 
spair, but  was  inflexible.  The  police  demanded 
her  manuscript,  for  they  wished  to  destroy  the 
book  utterly;  but  her  son  escaped  with  the  precious 
original,  and  an  imperfect  copy  was  given  them. 
She  took  refuge  again  in  her  chateau  at  Coppet, 
and  dreary  months  of  anxiety  were  spent  there, 
though  she  was  soon  surrounded  by  faithful  friends, 
the  ^lite  minds  of  the  age.  All  continental  Europe, 
except  Russia,  was  now  controlled  by  Napoleon.  His 
Swiss  gendarmes  demanded  again  her  manuscript, 
but  she  would  not  surrender  it.  Her  sons,  as  well  as 
herself,  were  not  allowed  to  re-enter  France,  and 
her  home  was  under  the  surveillance  of  police  spies. 
She  was  not  permitted  to  travel,  even  in  Switzer- 
land, except  between  Coppet  and  Geneva.  Schlegel 
was  torn  from  her  household  and  exiled ;  the  Duke 
cf  Montmorency  visited  her,  and  was  exiled  ;  Mad- 
ame Recamier,  who,  against  her  remonstrances, 
spent  a  night  under  her  roof  on  her  way  to  the 
baths  of  Aix,  was  exiled,  and  could  never  again 
return  to  Paris  till  the  downfall  of  the  tyrant. 

These  painful  details  can  be  tedious  to  no  man 
of  letters,  to  no  woman  of  heart.  With  similar 
facts  before,  and  worse  ones  afterward,  for  which 
we  have  not  room,  they  present  a  spectacle  for  the 
contemplation  of  the  intellectual  world — of,  at  least, 
all  students  of  human  nature :  the  little,  great  man 
of  empire  pursuing,  with  minutest  inhumanity  and 


224  Character-Sketches. 

egotism,  a  helpless  woman  of  genius — helpless,  yet 
greatest  of  her  age,  if  not  of  any  age.  Great 
enough  to  conquer  Europe,  this  man  was  not  great 
enough  to  conquer  himself.  He  was  conquered  by 
his  own  pettiest  passions  ;  and  the  truest  function 
of  history  regarding  him  is  to  hold  him  forth  before 
all  eyes  with  the  admonitory  lesson  that  there  is 
no  real  greatness  of  genius  without  the  moral  great- 
ness of  the  heart.*  After  breaking  down  the  whole 
political  fabric  of  the  continent  for  his  own  glory 
and  that  of  his  family ;  after  sacrificing  millions  of 
French  and  other  lives  to  his  selfish  ambition,  he 
was  to  be  cast  out  of  Europe  as  an  unendurable 
political  nuisance ;  his  restored  dynasty  was  again 
to  corrupt  France  till  it  should  dissolve  in  official 
rottenness,  and  the  bravest,  most  brilliant  nation 
of  modern  times  be  overrun  by  foreign  troops  and 
trodden  in  the  dust  with  a  humiliation  unparalleled 
in  the  history  of  nations.  The  bewildered  world 
still  cries  '*Hosanna!"  to  the  memory  of  Napo- 
leon ;  but  in  the  coming  ages  of  better  light  and 
juster  sentiments,  when  the  glory  of  war  shall  be 
righly  estimated  as  barbarism,  which  shall  stand  out 
worthiest  and  brightest  in  the  recognition  of  man- 
kind, the  genius  of  the  great  military  tyrant  or  that 

*  "  When  Bonaparte  insisted  that  the  heart  is  one  of  the  entrails, 
that  it  is  the  pit  of  the  stomach  that  moves  the  world — do  we  thank 
him  for  the  gracious  instruction  ?  Our  disgust  is  the  protest  of  hu- 
man nature  against  a  lie." — Emerson. 


Madame  de  Sta^l  and  her  Germany.  225 

of  the  great  suffering  writer  ?  Which  alternative 
will  enlightened  France  then  choose  for  her  homage, 
her  greatest  man  of  blood  or  her  greatest  woman 
of  intellect  ?  There  arc  men  who  will  brush  aside 
such  reflections  as  merely  rhetorical,  but  destiny 
itself  will  reinstate  them.  Alluding  to  her  suffer- 
ings Madame  de  Stael  says :  **  It  may,  perhaps, 
excite  astonishment  that  I  compare  exile  to  death, 
but  great  men  of  antiquity  and  of  modern  times 
have  sunk  under  it.  Many  a  man  has  confronted 
the  scaffold  with  more  courage  than  he  has  been 
able  to  command  in  the  loss  of  his  country.  In  all 
codes  of  law  perpetual  banishment  has  been  con- 
sidered as  one  of  the  severest  penalties ;  but  here 
the  caprice  of  one  man  inflicts,  in  a  kind  of  sport, 
what  conscientious  judges  have  pronounced  with 
regret  on  criminals."  But  her  wrongs  were  yet  to 
be  adjudicated  by  "  conscientious  judges."  The 
conscience  of  the  world  is  always  right  in  its  ulti- 
mate judgments,  and  wisdom  and  virtue  have  only 
need  to  wait.  Emerson  says  :  '*  Culture  alters  the 
political  status  of  an  individual.  It  raises  a  rival 
royalty  in  a  monarchy.  It  is  king  against  king.  It 
is  ever  the  romance  of  history  in  all  dynasties.  It 
creates  a  personal  independence  which  the  monarch 
cannot  look  down,  and  to  which  he  must  often  suc- 
cumb. The  history  of  Greece  is  at  one  time  re- 
duced to  two  persons,  Phihp,  or  the  successor  of 

Philip,  on  one  side,  and  Demosthenes,  a  private 
15 


226  Character-Sketches. 

citizen,  on  the  other.  Kings  feel  that  this  is  what 
they  themselves  represent.  This  is  no  red-ker- 
chiefed, red-shirted  rebellion,  but  royalty — king- 
ship. This  is  real  kingship,  and  theirs  only  titular. 
Literary  history  and  all  history  is  a  record  of  the 
power  of  minorities  and  of  minorities  of  one." 

Ever  since  the  epoch  of  the  Revolution  France 
has  been  reeling  between  the  alternatives  of  the 
personal  government,  exemplified  by  Bonaparte, 
and  the  constitutional  liberty  for  which  her  greatest 
authoress  pleaded  and  suffered.  Destiny  will  in- 
fallibly decide  at  last  for  the  latter ;  no  other  final 
decision  is  possible  under  the  moral  laws  of  the 
universe. 

Madame  de  Stael  dreaded  imprisonment  with  a 
morbid  terror.  It  might  be  for  life.  She  would 
flee,  but  whither?  She  w^ould  escape  to  England 
or  America,  and  had  invested  funds  in  the  latter 
for  the  purpose  ;  but  Napoleon  controlled  all  the 
ports,  except  those  of  Russia,  and  he  was  about  to 
invade  that  country.  Taking  with  her  the  Alle- 
magne,  she  left  secretly,  with  her  children  and  her 
second  husband,  Rocca.  Schlegel  joined  them  at 
Berne,  and  they  hastened  through  Germany,  through 
Austria,  through  Poland.  Rocca  disguised  himself 
as  a  French  courier,  for,  though  he  had  resigned  as 
a  French  officer,  and  was  disabled  by  his  honorable 
w^ounds.  Napoleon  tried  to  tear  him  from  her  by 
reclaiming  him   for  the  army.     Descriptions  of  his 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.   227 

person  were  distributed  along  their  route.  They 
read  placards  at  the  police  stations  every-where  for 
their  detection  or  obstruction.  The  events  of  their 
flight  were,  indeed,  thrilling,  but  we  cannot  delay 
for  them.  Fleeing  before  the  nearly  half-million 
hosts  of  the  conqueror,  they  at  last  enter  Russia 
with  thankful  hearts;  but  the  French  army  is  be- 
tween them  and  St.  Petersburgh  ;  they  hasten  to 
Moscow,  but  the  invaders  march  thitherward — to 
their  doom,  indeed — but  the  exiles  could  not  have 
anticipated  that  doom.  They  flee  again,  and  by  a 
wide  detour  reach  the  northern  capital,  where  the 
Emperor  Alexander  receives  them  gladly.  They 
reach  the  capital  of  Sweden,  and  are  sheltered  by 
her  faithful  friend,  Bernadotte,  the  ally  of  the 
Czar.  They  at  last  reach  London  and  are  safe, 
and  the  Allemagne  is  saved  to  the  intellectual 
world  forever. 

England  knows  little  or  nothing  yet  of  the  pro- 
scribed book,  but  the  genius  of  its  author  is  known 
there  by  her  other  works ;  she  is  recognized  as  the 
most  distinguished  woman  in  literature,  and  her 
persecutions  by  Napoleon  command  for  her  enthu- 
siastic sympathy.  She  is  immediately  the  idol  of 
its  best  circles ;  and  such  is  the  eagerness  to  see  her 
that  "  the  ordinary  restraints  of  high  society,"  we 
are  told,  are  quite  disregarded  ;  at  the  houses  of 
cabinet  ministers  the  first  ladies  of  the  kingdom 
mount  chairs  and  tables  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her. 


228  Character-Sketches. 

She  dines  daily  with  statesmen,  authors,  and  artists, 
at  the  tables  of  Lords  Landsdowne,  Holland,  Grey, 
Jersey,  Harrowby,  and  surpasses  all  by  her  splendid 
conversation,  not  excepting  Sheridan,  Mackintosh, 
Erskine,  and  Byron. 

The  interest  excited  by  her .  social  qualities,  her 
literary  fame,  and  her  persecutions,  was  suddenly 
and  immeasurably  enhanced  by  the  publication  of 
her  Germany,  in  London,  in  the  autumn  of  1813. 
It  proved  to  the  sober,  practical  English  mind 
that  the  dazzling  talker  was  also  a  profound 
thinker.  No  work  from  a  feminine  hand  had  ever 
equaled  it  in  masculine  vigor  and  depth  of 
thought,  as  well  as  of  sentiment. 

We  have  seen  how  the  precious  manuscript  es- 
caped the  hands  of  the  Government  at  Paris  by 
the  forethought  of  her  son,  and  afterward  by  her 
own  evasion  of  the  police  at  Coppet.  Secretly 
carried  through  all  her  flight  over  Germany,  Poland, 
Russia,  the  Baltic  Sea,  and  Sweden,  it  was  now 
secured  to  the  world  by  the  press  of  England,  and 
all  intelligent  Frenchmen  have  ever  since  been 
proud  of  it  as  one  of  the  monuments  of  their 
national  literature.  In  her  preface  she  told  the 
British  public  the  story  of  its  misfortunes,  inserting 
the  insulting  letter  of  the  Duke  de  Rovigo,  the 
Minister  of  Police,  ordering  her  out  of  France. 
*'At  the  moment,"  she  said,  *'  when  this  work  was 
about  to  appear,  and  when  ten  thousand  copies  had 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.  229 

already  been  printed,  the  Minister  of  Police,  known 
by  the  name  of  General  Savary,  sent  Kxsgcndarjnes  to 
the  publisher,  with  orders  to  cut  in  pieces  the  whole 
edition.  Sentinels  were  stationed  at  the  different 
issues  of  the  building  to  prevent  the  escaape  of  a 
single  copy  of  so  dangerous  a  book.  A  commis- 
sioner of  police  was  charged  to  superintend  this 
expedition.  General  Savary  obtained  an  easy  vic- 
tory, but  the  poor  commissioner  died,  I  am  told, 
from  anxious  labors  to  make  sure,  in  detail,  of  the 
destruction  of  so  many  volumes,  or,  rather,  of  their 
transformation  into  pasteboard,  perfectly  white, 
upon  which  no  trace  of  human  reason  should  re- 
main. The  intrinsic  value  of  this  card-paper, 
estimated  at  twenty  louiSj  was  the  only  indemnity 
that  the  publisher  obtained."**"  At  the  moment  my 
book  was  destroyed  at  Paris,  I  received  an  order, 
in  the  country,  to  surrender  the  copy  from  which 
it  had  been  printed,  and  to  leave  France  in  twenty- 
four  hours."  Such  a  statement  could  not  but  ex- 
cite the  wonder  of  England.  Such  a  petty,  per- 
secuting policy  on  the  part  of  Napoleon  was  in- 
conceivable to  the  British  mind,  accustomed  to  the 
utmost  liberty  of  thought  and  speech,  and  almost 
as  unrestricted  liberty  of  the  press.  The  incredible 
history  of  the  work  now  gave  it  incredible  success. 

She  appended  to  her  preface  a  brief  outline  of 
its  design  and  plan.     **  I  have  thought,"  she  said, 

♦  She,  however,  sent  the  publisher  15,000  francs. 


230  (character-Sketches. 

**  that  it  would  be  beneficial  to  make  known  the 
country  of  Europe  where  study  and  meditation 
have  been  carried  so  far  that  we  may  consider  it  the 
land  of  thought.  The  reflections  which  the  coun- 
try and   its  books   have  suggested  to  me   may  be 

divided  into   four  sections.     The  first  will  treat  of 

» 

Germany  and  the  Manners  of  the  Germans  ;  the 
second  of  Literature  and  Art ;  the  third  of  Philos- 
ophy and  Morals ;  the  fourth  of  Religion  and 
Enthusiasm." 

The  Allemagne  could  not,  like  Delphine  and 
Corinne,  appeal  to  popular  readers,  the  readers 
of  "  light  literature ; "  but  it  commanded  imme- 
diately and  universally  the  interest  of  the  en- 
lightened classes.  We  have  noticed  how  Byron 
admired  it  in  spite  of  his  cynical  dislike  of  her  con- 
versation and  her  person.  Mackintosh  immediate- 
ly reviewed  it  in  the  Edinburgh  Quarterly.  "  The 
voice  of  Europe,"  he  said,  "  has  already  applauded 
the  genius  of  a  national  painter  in  the  author  of 
'  Corinne.'  But  it  was  there  aided  by  the  power  of 
a  pathetic  fiction,  by  the  vanity  and  opposition  of 
national  character,  and  by  the  charm  of  a  country 
which  unites  beauty  to  renown.  In  the  work  be- 
fore us  she  has  thrown  off  the  aid  of  fiction.  She 
delineates  a  less  poetical  character,  and  a  country 
more  interesting  by  expectation  than  by  recollec- 
tion. But  it  is  not  the  less  certain  that  it  is  the 
most   vigorous  effort  of  her  genius,  and  probably 


Madamk  1)l:  SiAKLAM)  lii.K  Gkrmans.     .\;\ 

tlie  most  elaborate  and  masculine  production  of  the 
faculties  of  woman."  The  chapters  which  treat  of 
society  and  conversation,  he  remarks,  are  the  most 
perfect,  and  "  exhibit  an  unparalleled  union  of 
graceful  vivacity  with  philosophical  ingenuity." 
The  chapter  on  Taste,  he  says,  is  "  exquisite," 
*'  balancing  with  a  skillful  and  impartial  hand  the 
literary  opinions  of  nations."  The  third  part,  which 
treats  of  Metaphysical  Systems,  is,  he  adds,  **  a 
novelty  in  the  history  of  the  human  mind,  and, 
whatever  may  be  thought  of  its  success  in  some  of 
the  parts,  must  be  regarded,  on  the  whole,  as  the 
boldest  effort  of  the  female  intellect."  The  con- 
cluding portion  of  the  work,  on  Enthusiasm,  he 
pronounces  the  most  eloquent,  "  if  we  except  the 
incomparable  chapter  on  Conjugal  Love."  "Thus," 
he  says,  after  a  long  citation,  "  terminates  a  work 
which,  for  variety  of  knowledge,  flexibility  of  power, 
elevation  of  view,  and  comprehension  of  mind,  is 
unequaled  among  the  works  of  women,  and  which, 
in  the  union  of  the  graces  of  society  and  literature 
with  the  genius  of  philosophy,  is  not  surpassed  by 
many  among  those  of  men." 

The  London  edition  was  issued  by  Murray  in 
three  volumes,  i2mo.  In  the  following  year  it  was 
reproduced  in  Paris  and  Geneva,  and  in  an  Italian 
version  at  Milan.  In  the  next  year  another  edition 
appeared  in  Paris,  in  four  volumes,  i2mo,  and  in 
three  volumes,  8vo.     In  less  than  two  years  later 


232  Character-Sketches. 

a  revised  edition  was  issued  in  Paris  in  two  volumes, 
8vo.  Editions  and  translations  followed  in  all  the 
principal  tongues  of  Europe. 

So  imposing  a  work  could  not  fail  to  provoke 
criticism,  and,  besides  innumerable  "  periodical  " 
reviews,  no  less  than  six  publications,  discussing  its 
merits  and  demerits,  appeared  in  less  than  a  year  in 
the  German,  French,  and  English  languages,  from 
the  presses  of  Heidelberg,  Hanover,  Bremen,  Paris, 
London,  and  Edinburgh. 

It  is  from  the  stand-point  of  the  Romantic 
School  that  Madame  de  Stael  considers  Germany. 
The  two  Schlegels,  Ludwig  Tieck,  Goerres,  Bren- 
tano,  Arnim,  Kleist,  were  then  the  representatives 
of  that  school,  and  Goethe  was  hailed  as  their 
chieftain,  though  the  universality  of  his  genius  ren- 
dered him  superior  to  the  limitations  of  any  liter- 
ary sect.  These  writers  endeavored  to  be  national 
by  reproducing  exclusively  the  spirit  of  the  elder 
German  literature  and  legends — the  idiosyncrasies 
of  the  northern  mind.  They  succeeded  to  some 
extent,  in  spite  of  the  claims  of  culture  on  all  the 
possibilities  of  literature  and  art.  Madame  de 
Stael  wrote  under  their  inspiration,  and  thereby 
painted  a  more  genuine  picture  of  intellectual  and 
social  Germany  than  she  could  otherwise  have  pro- 
duced. An  able  German  critic  remarks  that  it  is 
important  her  readers  should  bear  in  mind  this 
stand-point  of  her  **  remarkable  work."     She  took 


Madame'de  Stael  and  her  Germany.   233 

it  spontaneously,  though  influenced  by  her  favorite 
German  authors ;  her  previous  work  on  '*  Litera- 
ture "  showed  her  predilection  for  the  Romantic 
School ;  it  is  pervaded  by  the  ideas  of  that  school, 
and  she  was  among  the  first  of  its  founders  in 
France.  She  gives  in  the  AUemagne  a  fine  chapter 
discriminating  the  two  schools.  She  says :  "  The 
songs  of  the  Troubadours,  born  of  chivalry  and 
Christianity,  originated  in  the  poetry  of  the  Ro- 
mantic School.  If  we  do  not  admit  that  paganism 
and  Christianity,  the  north  and  the  south,  antiquity 
and  the  Middle  Ages,  chivalry  and  the  Greek  and 
Roman  institutions,  divide  the  empire  of  literature, 
we  shall  never  be  able  to  judge,  from  a  philosophic 
stand-point,  ancient  and  modern  taste.  Classic 
poetry  is  simple  and  salient,  like  exterior  ob- 
jects ;  Christian  poetry  has  need  of  all  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow.  But  the  question  for  us  is  not 
between  the  classic  and  romantic  poetry,  but 
between  the  imitation  of  the  one  and  the  in- 
spiration of  the  other.-  The  literature  of  the 
ancients  is  with  the  moderns  a  literature  trans- 
planted ;  the  romantic  literature  is  with  us  indig- 
enous; it  is  the  product  of  our  religion  and  our 
institutions." 

The  fact  that  she  was  the  principal  founder  of 
the  romantic  school  in  French  literature  shows  the 
salient  energy  of  her  genius.  Romanticism  is  le- 
gitimate in  its  own  sphere.     Its  chief  fault  was  its 


234  Character-Sketches. 

exclusiveness ;  for  the  capabilities  of  art  are  as 
manifold  as  the  needs  of  culture.  While  vindicat- 
ing the  romantic  school,  Madame  de  Stael  did  not 
exclude  classicism.  The  partisan  spirit  provoked 
by  its  theorists  was  irrelevant.  Lerminier  remarks 
that  "  one  party  repeated,  with  Madame  de  Stael 
and  the  Schlegels,  that  romanticism  came  forth 
from  Christianity  and  chivalry  ;  another,  with  some 
English  critics  and  poets,  that  its  origin  was  in 
Saxon  and  Norman  traditions.  There  were  still 
others,  more  refined,  more  metaphysical,  who  saw 
in  romanticism  the  expression  of  the  most  pro- 
found sentiments  of  the  soul,  and  an  indefinable 
ideal.  There  was  a  resonant  shock  of  systems  and 
theories."  Romanticism,  which  produced,  besides 
Madame  de  Stael,  such  writers  as  Chateaubriand 
and  Lamartine,  and  has  culminated  in  our  day  in 
the  genius  of  Victor  Hugo,  has  enriched  the  liter- 
ature of  the  modern,  without  impairing  the  literary 
claims  of  the  ancient  world.  Lerminier  affirms  a 
truth,  though  not  without  a  spice  of  malice,  when 
he  says  that  "  Hugo,  wishing  to  establish  his  title 
as  chief  of  the  romantic  school,  its  Aristotle,  has 
appropriated  the  ideas  long  since  put  in  circulation 
by  Madame  de  Stael,  the  Schlegels,  Sismondi,  and 
Benjamin  Constant,  and  thrust  them  to  an  ex- 
treme." The  romantic  school  has  seen  the  end  of 
its  day  as  an  exclusive  sect  ;  it  will  never  see  the 
end  of  its  day  as  a  legitimate  and  brilliant  school 


Madam K  de  Stakl  and  iikr  Germany.   235 

by  the  side  of  classicism.  It  is  as  legitimate  there 
as  the  Gothic  architecture  is  by  the  side  of  the 
Greek. 

Considered  as  the  initiative  of  foreign  criticism 
on  German  literature,  Sainte-Beuve  esteems  the 
Allemagne  a  work  which  **  no  other  person  could 
have  produced  at  that  period."  Madame  de 
Stael  was  the  first  writer  who  effectively  disclosed, 
not  only  to  France,  but  to  Europe  generally,  the 
rich  mines  of  the  German  intellect.  She  was  the 
first  of  French  writers  to  vindicate  Shakspeare 
against  the  prejudices  of  Voltaire.  Villemain  says: 
"  The  unity  of  such  a  work  is  in  the  soul  of  the 
author,  in  the  spirit,  the  verve,  continuous,  yet  ever 
varied,  with  which  she  treats  of  so  many  and  such 
diverse  topics.  We  admire  the  penetrating  glance 
which  it  casts  on  all  the  literature  of  a  nation,  its 
profound  intelligence,  the  vivid  sensibility  which 
gives  to  the  analysis  all  the  interest  of  passion  and 
all  the  novelty  of  inspiration.  The  poetry  of  the 
north,  with  what  vivacity  Madame  de  Stael  repro- 
duces and  interprets  it  !  .  .  .  This  book,  this  en- 
thusiasm of  literary  independence,  this  apotheosis 
of  duty,  this  ardor  of  spiritualism,  were  in  reality  an 
indirect  and  continual  protestation  against  the 
system  of  government  which  then  dominated 
France.  .  .  .  The  work  of  Madame  de  Stael,  all 
animated  with  a  sort  of  moral  independence, 
breathing   hatred   of  personal   interest,  enthusiasm 


236  Character-Sketches. 

for  noble  sacrifice,  for  liberty,  the  liberty  of  the 
soul  subjected  to  the  single  law  of  duty,  shocked 
the  political  maxims  of  the  conqueror.  The  pas- 
sion which  reigns  in  the  book,  and  which  animates 
it  with  a  single  spirit  in  all  the  diversity  of  its  sub- 
jects and  forms — it  is  moral  sentiment." 

Lamartine  speaks  of  the  AUemagne  with  all  his 
poetic  ardor.  We  have  seen  in  part  his  opin- 
ion. He  adds :  "  Appearing  about  the  same  time 
in  England  and  France,  it  became  the  subject  of 
the  conversation  of  Europe.  Her  style,  without 
losing  any  of  its  youthful  vigor  and  splendor, 
seemed  now  to  be  illuminated  with  lights  more 
high  and  eternal,  as  she  approached  the  evening  of 
life  and  the  diviner  mysteries  of  thought.  This 
style  paints  no  more,  it  chants  no  more,  it  adores. 
One  respires  the  incense  of  a  soul  over  its  pages. 
It  is  Corinne  become  a  priestess,  and  seeing  from 
the  border  of  life  the  unknown  God  beyond  the 
horizons  of  humanity." 

Vinet  says  :  "  Its  appreciations  of  authors  and  of 
works  are  spirited  and  delicate,  and  show  rare  pen- 
etration ;  its  analyses  are  full  of  movement  and 
life,  and  the  cited  passages  are  translated  with  great 
talent.  Respect  for  genius  and  the  sentiment  of 
the  beautiful  illuminate  every  step  of  the  writer. 
French  prejudice  nowhere  makes  her  misapprehend 
true  beauties  ;  nor  does  her  enthusiasm,  or  docility, 
or  contempt  for  mere  novelty,  ever  lead  her,  as  so 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.   237 

many  others,  to  mistake  a  deformed  idol  for  a  di- 
\  inity." 

Vinet,  like  Sainte-Bcuve,  claims  for  the  work  a 
hii;h  moral  and  political  purport.  He  says  :  "  It 
was  one  of  those  life-boats  which,  in  the  stress  of 
the  storm,  is  employed  courageously  for  the  salva- 
tion of  a  ship  in  distress.  The  ship  was  France, 
all  the  liberties  of  which  were,  in  the  opinion  of 
Madame  de  Stael,  perishing  at  the  time.  Persuad- 
ed that  the  nations  are  called  to  help  one  another, 
she  went  this  time  to  demand  from  Germany — hu- 
miliated and  conquered  Germany — the  salvation  of 
France.  There  is  more  of  patriotism  than  of  na- 
tional egotism  in  the  work.  ...  It  inaugurated  in 
literature  a  new  era.  For  good  or  for  evil  its  in- 
fluence was  capital.  It  put  an  end  to  the  isolation 
of  two  great  neighboring  nations.  It  revealed  for 
the  first  time  Germany  to  France.  All  Germany 
does  not  appreciate  this  fact ;  but  hear  what  Goethe 
wrote  in  his  old  age  :  *  This  book,'  he  said,  'ought 
to  be  considered  as  a  powerful  engine  which  made 
a  wide  breach  in  the  wall  of  antiquated  prejudice 
which  divided  the  two  countries  ;  so  that  beyond 
the  Rhine,  and  afterward  beyond  the  channel,  we 
became  better  known — a  fact  that  could  not  fail 
to  procure  for  us  a  great  influence  over  all  west- 
ern Europe.*  "  Vinet  thinks  that  the  Allemagne 
marks  the  point  of  maturity  of  thought  and  of  tal- 
ent in  Madame  de  Stael  ;  that  in  style  it  is  the 


238  Character-Sketches. 

richest,  and  in  moral  sentiment  the  most  advanced, 
of  all  her  works.  "  It  is,"  he  says,  "  in  the  Alle- 
magne,  if  I  am  not  deceived,  and  particularly  in 
its  last  part,  that  she  shows  herself,  above  all,  a 
poet.  In  approaching  the  regions  of  supreme 
truth,  and,  by  consequence,  of  repose,  she  has 
felt  commence  in  her  soul  that  harmonious  con- 
cert of  sensibility  and  imagination  which  is  prop- 
erly poetry.  Without  making  use,  as  in  Corinne, 
of  poetical  phraseology,  without  deviating  from  the 
movement  of  prose,  she  sings,  perhaps  for  the  first 
time."  Richter  criticised  the  Allemagne,  particu- 
larly what  it  said  of  his  own  writings,  but  he  ad- 
mired the  genius  of  its  author,  and  said,  *'  Probably 
she  is  the  only  woman  in  Europe,  and  still  more 
probably  the  only  French  person,  that  could  have 
written  such  a  book." 

The  Allemagne,  as  Goethe  admits,  breached  the' 
wall  that  had  barricaded  the  German  literature. 
It  did  so  for  England  as  well  as  for  France,  and 
finally  for  the  whole  exterior  intellectual  world. 
Some  twenty  years  earlier  Scott,  influenced  chief- 
ly by  Lewis,  (author  of  the  *'  Monk,"  and  a  thor- 
ough German  scholar,)  had  given  intimations  of 
the  wealth  of  German  thought,  and  made  some 
translations  from  Burger,  and,  later,  from  Goethe, 
but  lost  money  by  their  publication.  Thirteen 
years  before  the  appearance  of  the  Allemagne 
Coleridge    published    his   translation    of   Schiller's 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.  239 

*♦  Wallenstein,"  and  began  to  talk  German  philoso- 
phy among  his  friends ;  but  Englishmen  continued 
to  think  the  language  inexorable,  if  not  barbarous, 
and  the  originality  of  the  German  mind  fantastic, 
and  incompatible  with  British  '*  common  sense." 
The  AUemagne  dispelled  this  prejudice,  and,  re- 
vealing the  abundant  treasures  of  German  ge- 
nius and  learning,  opened  the  way  for  that  influx 
of  German  thought  which,  principally  by  the  sub- 
sequent labors  of  Coleridge  and  Carlyle,  has,  for 
good  or  evil,  been  flooding  the  English  mind,  and 
transforming  English  scholarship,  criticism,  and 
speculation. 

It  was  its  author's  good  fortune  to  write  it  at  a 
time  when  the  German  intellect  was  at  its  zenith, 
culminating  in  Goethe,  and  illustrated  by  a  splen- 
did array  of  other  lights — by  Klopstock,  Schiller, 
Wieland,  Winkelman,  Lessing,  Herder,  Tieck, 
Richter,  the  Schlegels,  Werner,  Wolf,  Jacobi, 
Kant,  Fichte,  Schelling,*  and  almost  innumerable 
others,  most  of  them  still  living  when  she  last  vis- 
ited Germany.  The  enduring  products  of  the  Ger- 
man mind  have  since  multiplied  vastly  in  every 
department,  but  its  splendor  at  the  epoch  of  the 
AUemagne   has  never   been   surpassed,   and   prob- 

*  Hegel,  whose  later  influence  on  German  thought  was  so  impor- 
tant, is  not  mentioned  by  her,  though  he  began  his  first  lectures  at 
Jena,  near  Weimar,  in  i8oi,  two  years  before  her  arrival  in  Weimar, 
and  published  his  work  on  Schelling  in  the  same  year,  and  his 
"  Phenomenology  of  the  Soul "  in  1807. 


240  Character-Sketches. 

ably  never  can  be.  Yet  the  book  has,  by  the 
course  of  time  alone,  become  deficient,  but  not  ob- 
solete, and  never  can  be,  as  a  survey  of  German 
life  and  literature.  It  abounds  also  in  special 
faults ;  its  critical  estimates  are  sometimes  inade- 
quate, at  others  exaggerated.  But  works  of  genius, 
as  we  have  affirmed,  are  essentially  immortal.  It 
is  the  distinction  of  genius  that  it  imparts  some- 
what of  its  own  personality  to  its  productions. 
"  Style  is  the  man  ; "  and  style,  of  both  thought 
and  expression — the  individuality  of  the  artist — is 
the  everlasting  charm  of  classic  works.  The  touch 
of  genius  thus  gives  enduring  life  to  even  obsolete 
facts.  It  is  like  the  word  of  the  prophet  in  the 
*' valley  of  visions;"  the  dry  bones  rise  up  at  its 
bidding,  embodied  and  armed.  The  fragments  of 
the  Parthenon  sculptures  are  precious,  not  because 
of  their  mythologic  fictions,  but  because,  in  their 
very  ruins,  they  still  glow  with  the  genius  of 
Phidias.  The  Allemagne  is  imbued  with  the  rich- 
est genius  of  its  author — with  exalted  sentiment, 
with  profound  thought,  with  grand  moral  truth, 
with  the  eloquence  of  style,  with  the  power,  the 
essence,  of  a  great  soul.  There  is  scarcely  a  page 
of  it  which  does  not  present  something  that  the 
world  can  never  willingly  let  die.  As  a  monument 
of  intellect,  especially  of  a  woman's  intellect,  it  is 
classic  and  immortal. 

It  would  betray  an  unpardonable  lack  of  sensi- 


Madam K  dk  Stael  and  her  Germany.   241 

bility  were  we  to  feel  no  profounder  sentiment 
than  mere  satisfaction  with  this  signal  literary  tri- 
umph. In  its  peculiar  circumstances  it  is  a  specta- 
cle for  generous,  for  enthusiastic  admiration.  It  is 
a  vindication  of  the  supremacy  of  the  human  intcl 
lect,  of  that  sovereignty  of  mind  which,  from  the 
prisons  of  Boethius,  Tasso,  Cervantes,  and  Bunyan, 
from  the  exile  of  Ovid,  Dante,  and  Spinoza,  and  from 
the  humiliation  of  the  old  age  and  poverty  of  Milton, 
have  sent  forth  through  all  the  world  and  all  time 
proofs,  if  not  of  the  invulnerability,  yet  of  the  in- 
vincibility, of  genius,  irradiating  their  names  with 
honor  when  the  sword  or  the  scepter  which  op- 
pressed them  has  sunk  into  oblivion  or  ignominy. 
Throughout  her  prolonged  sufferings  the  intellect 
of  this  persecuted  woman  has  been  ever  in  the  as- 
cendant. Its  every  new  production  has  been  supe- 
rior to  its  preceding  one.  The  victory  of  the  pen 
over  the  scepter  was  now,  in  her  case,  incontest- 
able. Corinne  was  crowned  anew,  in  the  land 
of  constitutional  liberty,  with  laurels  gathered  in 
"  the  land  of  thought."  Meanwhile  the  crown 
was  falling  from  the  brow  of  her  heartless  persecu- 
tor. She  had  fled  over  Europe  with  her  proscribed 
manuscript,  before  his  armed  hosts.  He  knew 
that  she  was  fleeing  in  his  front,  as  we  have  seen 
by  his  attempts  to  embarrass  her  flight  and  to  seize 
Rocca.  His  hosts  have  been  rolled  back  in  disas- 
trous overthrow  from  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  cap- 
16 


242  Character-Sketches. 

ital  of  the  land  which  then  gave  her  shelter,  leaving 
in  their  retreat  more  that  250,000  dead  men,  vic- 
tims of  the  sword  or  the  climate.  His  unparalleled 
energies  rallied  again,  and  he  triumphed  at  Lutzen, 
at  Bautzen,  at  Dresden.  But  in  the  very  month 
in  which  the  Allemagne  issued  from  the  London 
press  was  fought  the  great  **  battle  of  the  na- 
tions," as  it  has  been  called.  Germany,  united, 
rose  with  overwhelmiiig  resentment,  and,  on  the 
battle-field  of  Leipsic,  broke  forever  the  domina- 
tion of  the  tyrant.  The  Edinburgh  Quarterly  ap- 
peared, with  Mackintosh's  review  of  the  Alle- 
magne, amid  the  acclamations  of  England  over 
the  great  victory — the  resurrection  of  the  people 
whose  intellectual  claims  it  had  vindicated.  In 
less  than  six  months  Napoleon  abdicated,  and  the 
authoress,  now  the  most  distinguished  woman  of 
Europe,  re-entered  the  French  capital.  Her  Co- 
rinne  had  been  the  apotheosis  of  Italy ;  her  Al- 
lemagne, delayed  by  her  persecutor  till  the  resur- 
rection of  Germany  and  his  own  downfall,  was  now 
her  own  apotheosis. 

A  battle  was  fought  on  the  30th  of  March,  18 14, 
under  the  walls  of  Paris,  and  the  allies  entered  the 
city.  Madame  de  Stael's  re-appearance  there  was 
another  social  triumph.  Her  salon  was  again 
opened  and  thronged.  Her  friends  returned  ;  Mont- 
morency and  Chateaubriand  to  take  office,  and 
Madame  Recamier,  from  her  exile  in  Italy,  to  cm- 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.  243 

hellish  the  society  of  the  capital  with  her  undimin- 
ished beauty.  The  Government  paid  to  the  author- 
ess the  two  millions  of  Necker's  claim.  She  saw  her 
daughter  married  to  the  Due  de  Broglie,  and  placed 
in  the  highest  ranks  of  French  society.  Her  fame 
filled  Europe  ;  no  queen  had  more.  She  had  been 
faithful,  and  had  triumphed  at  last.  The  "  Hun- 
dred Days  "  threatened  that  triumph,  but  Waterloo 
secured  it. 

The  world  knows  well  the  remainder  of  the  re- 
markable story.  The  persecutor  —  the  greatest 
captain  of  his  age,  if  not  of  any  age — died,  himself 
an  exile  on  the  rock  of  St.  Helena;  his  victim — the 
greatest  feminine  writer  of  her  age,  if  not  of  any  age 
— became  the  idol  of  his  lost  capital,  the  intellect- 
ual empress  of  Europe,  and  died  peacefully  in  her 
restored  Parisian  home — La  Fayette,  Wellington, 
royal  personages  from  the  Tuileries,  the  represent- 
atives of  all  European  Courts,  inquiring  daily  at  her 
door,  and  the  world  feeling  that  by  her  death,  in 
the  language  of  Chateaubriand,  "  society  was  struck 
with  a  general  disaster ;  **  that  **  it  made  one  of 
those  breaches  which  the  fall  of  a  superior  intellect 
produces  once  in  an  age,  and  which  can  never  be 
closed." 

The  history  of  such  a  woman  teaches  its  own 
lessons  more  effectively  than  could  any  dissertation, 
or  preachments  of  her  eulogists.  She  vindicates 
the  highest  claims  of  her  sex,  for  emancipation  and 


244  Character-Sketches. 

fair  play  in  the  life  of  humanity.  In  spite  of  all 
superficial  and  supercilious  criticism,  she  takes  her 
place,  without  pretension,  but  invincibly,  among 
the  elect  minds  of  history,  though  she  was  never 
allowed,  in  that  place,  the  free  action  and  sway 
which  would  have  been  permitted  to  a  man  with 
half  her  capability.  She  harmonized  her  literary, 
and  other  public,  activity  with  rare  filial  devotion, 
and  the  faithful  education  of  her  children,  for  she 
was  a  genuine  woman  as  well  as  a  virile  intellect ; 
and,  if  the  impeachments  which  the  gossip  and 
scandal  of  the  day  alleged  against  her,  as  against 
nearly  every  other  woman  of  her  class,  should 
ever  be  confirmed,  yet  her  whole  history  shows 
that  she  possessed  a  profound  morale  which  never 
yielded  to  the  corrupt  "  philosophy  "  of  her  times  ; 
which  ever  craved  the  happiness  of  pure  relations ; 
and  which,  especially  after  the  death  of  her  father, 
developed,  more  and  more,  into  high  religious  aspi- 
rations ;  and  she  died,  at  last,  sustained  by  her 
Christian  faith,  in  peace  with  God  and  all  the  world. 
In  the  language  of  the  most  brilliant  of  living 
lecturers  in  the  University  of  France :  ^  "  This 
woman,  contemporaneous  with  what  was  most  sol- 
emn and  most  tragic,  most  heroic  and  most  terrible, 
in  French  national  history,  presents  herself,  before 
our  minds,  at  Coppet,  in  her  splendors  and  her  sor- 
rows.    With  a  passionate  imagination,  the  inspira- 

*  Prof.  Caro,  La  Fin  du  Dix-Huitieme  Siecle.     Paris,  1880. 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.     245 

tion  and  highest  movement  of  genius,  energetic 
eloquence,  and  enthusiastic  will,  Madame  de  Stael 
had  some  of  those  qualities,  some  also  of  those 
brilliant  faults,  which  assure,  in  this  world,  the 
triumphs  of  dite  minds.  Her  powerful  faculties 
would  have  placed  a  man  in  the  first  ranks:  a 
woman,  she  had  to  use  in  ungrateful  struggles  and 
in  secondary  roles^  those  qualities  which  designate 
her  to  great  roles  in  the  State.  Born  for  action,  she 
had  to  consume  her  forces  in  resistance.  The  crit- 
icism of  the  salon,  political  opposition  in  conver- 
sation, by  allusions,  and  by  epigrams — what  a  medi- 
ocre and  sterile  role !  If  she  had  been  a  man, 
though  her  principles,  her  instincts,  or  her  ambition, 
might  have  separated  her  from  the  Government, 
yet  she  could,  at  least,  have  warred,  face  to  face,  in 
full  day,  by  public  discourse  or  by  acts ;  she  could 
have  acted  directly  on  her  country  ;  she  could  have 
organized  resistance  and  disciplined  it  according  to 
the  law  of  her  idea  or  her  passion.  There  would 
have  been,  in  such  a  combat,  vivid  joys,  compensa- 
tions of  popularity,  great  satisfaction  of  self-esteem; 
and,  if  events  should  become  propitious,  what  no- 
bler pleasure  than  the  exercise  of  power,  the  real- 
ization of  her  ideas,  the  impression  of  her  thoughts 
on  the  history  of  her  times  !  But  a  woman,  en- 
slaved in  the  circle  that  opinion  and  natyre  traced 
around  her,  she  could  not  fashion  events  and  reveal 
herself  in    public    acts.     Her   compressed   powers 


246  Character-Sketches. 

changed  their  route;  discovering  no  issue  in  action, 
they  sought  it  elsewhere ;  they  burst  forth  in  her 
works.  Her  faculties,  applied  to  thought,  redoubled 
its  energy  and  movement.  Her  Corinne,  Allemagne, 
and  French  Revolution  consecrated  her  name,  be- 
fore Europe,  in  Romance,  in  Esthetics,  in  the  Criti- 
cism of  comparative  Literature,  and  in  the  analysis 
and  theory  of  Politics." 

This  will  be  called  enthusiasm,  French  enthusi- 
asm ;  but  it  is  legitimate  enthusiasm  ;  and  it  should 
be  consoling  to  all  men  and  women  of  letters,  to 
know  that,  through  the  more  than  half-century 
during  which  this  remarkable  woman  has  been  be- 
littled and  bespattered  by  a  certain  class  of  writ- 
ers, she  has  been  thus  enthusiastically  upheld  by 
men  in  the  highest  literary  positions  of  her  coun- 
try— such  as  Villemain,  Chateaubriand,  Sainte- 
Beuve,  Lamartine,  Guizot,  Scherer,  Laboulaye, 
and  Caro ;  men  who,  while  admitting  her  faults, 
have  delighted  to  eulogize  her  powers  as  seldom 
or  never  equaled  among  women.  To  contemplate 
such  a  character  without  somewhat  of  the  enthu- 
siasm which  so  much  inspired  her  writing  and 
her  life,  and  of  which  she  so  eloquently  treats 
in  the  last  two  chapters  of  her  Allemagne,  as 
essential  to  all  true  art  and  all  high  character, 
would  be  incompatible  with  the  subject.  It  would 
be  a  violation  of  the  just  principles  of  criticism,  of 
the  canons  of  true  taste,  as  applicable  to  such  a  case. 


Madame  de  Stael  and  her  Germany.   247 

Carlyle,  in  his  notable  paper  on  Burns,  declines  to 
accept  the  doctrine  that  **  criticism  should  be  a  cold 
business;"  where  it  has  to  do  with  a  heart  as  well 
as  with  a  head,  as  in  this  case,  it  should  be  from 
the  heart  as  well  as  from  the  head.  Its  **  coldness  '* 
here  would  be  an  impertinence,  not  to  say  a  prof-- 
anation. 


248  Character-Sketches. 


VI. 

VOLTAIRE— LITERARY    POWER. 

MORLEY'S  book  on  Voltaire  is  a  brilliant 
essay  notwithstanding  his  formidable  style 
and  any  objections  we  may  have  to  his  moral  stand- 
point. But  it  is  no  biography ;  it  is  an  abstract  ;  a 
philosophical  generalization  of  a  life  and  an  epoch. 
Its  last  chapter,  on  '*  Voltaire  at  Ferney,"  is  its 
most  interesting  one — the  only  one,  in  fact,  which 
is  thoroughly  intelligible  to  ''  common  readers," 
who  may  not  be  familliar  with  the  literature  and 
histpry  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Even  this  chap- 
ter fails  of  the  most  illustrative  data  of  the  period. 
We  can  hardly  suppose  that  the  author  was  not 
aware  of  Gaberel's  Voltaire  et  les  G^nevoiSy  but  he 
has  not  availed  himself  of  its  original  and  singularly 
interesting  materials.  Gaberel  is  an  ancien  pasteur 
of  Geneva,  and  has  probably  known  old  men  who 
knew  Voltaire.  He  has,  at  least,  known  old  Swiss 
families  which  preserved  collections  of  the  corre- 
spondence of  the  "■  patriarch  "  with  their  ancestors, 
and  records  of  his  conversations  and  local  doings. 
To  these,  his  influential  function,  as /<3:^/^/^r,  gave 
him  ready  access — papers  of  Dr.  Condet,  Mouchon, 
Vernes,  Professor  De  Roches,  the  naturalists  Bon- 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  249 

net  and  Candolle,  of  Picot,  and  Voltaire's  celebrated 
medical  friend  Tronchin — names  still  familiar  in 
Geneva.  The  good  ancien  pasteur  searched  thor- 
oughly these  sources,  and,  making  out  a  striking 
and  somewhat  amusing  history  of  Voltaire's  rela- 
tions to  the  Genevese  during  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
treated  his  fellow-citizens  to  a  course  of  public 
lectures  on  the  subject,  which  were  given  to  the 
public  in  one  of  the  most  entertaining  little  vol- 
umes of  the  whole  Voltairean  literature.  The  book 
is  scarcely  tinged  with  the  professional  feeling 
that  we  might  expect  from  the  writer ;  it  is  per- 
vii/ded  by  candor  and  a  quiet  good  humor.  Taken 
with  the  author's  similar  work  on  Rousseau  et  les 
Genevois,  with  the  Correspondance  of  Grimm  and 
Diderot,  and  especially  with  the  correspondance 
generate  of  Voltaire,  it  gives  us  a  thorough  insight 
into  one  of  the  most  remarkable  intellectual  lives  on 
record. 

We  select  the  Swiss  period  of  Voltaire's  long  ca- 
reer, as  affording  not  only  some  of  the  most  charac- 
teristic facts  of  his  history,  but  also  the  most  strik- 
ing illustrations  of  his  humor,  and  of  the  power  of 
his  pen— its  power  especially  in  memorable,  benefi- 
cent achievements.  But  we  can  take,  even  within 
this  limitation,  but  cursory  glimpses  of  this  mar- 
velous literary  life,  extending  through  a  quarter  of  a 
century.  Whether  for  good  or  for  evil,  or  for  both, 
Voltaire  was,  as  Morley  says,  "  a  stupendous  power.*' 


2  50  Character-Sketches. 

His  "life  and  character  constitute  in  themselves 
a  new  and  most  prodigious  era."  "  His  pen  was 
more  potent  than  any  king's  scepter,"  says  Carlyle. 
This  author  treats  justly  his  faults,  both  literary  and 
moral,  but  acknowledges  him  a  '*  European  power," 
the  most  forcible  with  the  pen  since  Luther.  He 
was  one  of  the  most  indefatigable  workers  known 
to  literary  history,  giving,  at  Ferney,  fourteen  hours 
a  day  to  labor,  though  much  of  the  time  sick  in  his 
bed.  There  has  never  been  a  center  of  equal  liter- 
ary power  in  Europe,  not  excepting  Weimar,  under 
Goethe's  intellectual  reign.  He  wrote  there  many 
of  those  works  which  fill  ninety-seven  volumes  in 
Baudouin's  first  edition.  His  most  telling  corre- 
spondence emanated  thence — most  of  those  seven 
thousand  pubhshed  letters,  which,  his  editor  says, 
are  but  half  the  number  written,  every  sentence  of 
which,  as  Morley  remarks,  is  characteristic,  alive  with 
the  mental  vitality  of  the  man.  Thence,  too,  as 
the  greatest  wit  of  his  age,  he  flashed  over  Europe 
his  epigrams  and  sarcasms.  There  he  fought  out, 
as  probably  no  other  man  then  living  could  have 
fought,  his  great  battles  for  toleration,  in  the  mem- 
orable cases  of  the  Calas  family,  of  Sirven,  and  of 
La  Barre — victorious  contests,  in  which  his  **  ortho- 
dox "  neighbors,  the  **  venerable  company  of  pastors 
of  Geneva  " — good  though  grim  men — were  proud 
to  array  themselves  under  his  banner — that  banner 
which,  Morley  says,  "  was  ever  in  the  front  and  cen- 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  251 

ter  of  the  fight ;  that  was  many  a  time  rent,  but  was 
never  out  of  the  field."  Strange,  scoffing,  unscru- 
pulous, yet  humane  old  man,  let  him  have  his  due ! 
He  was  called  by  the  devout  Calvinists  of  Geneva 
the  vieux  diablc  de  Fcrncy — **  the  old  devil  of  Fer- 
ney;**  but  a  generous  proverb  teaches  us  to  '*give 
the  devil  his  due." 

The  most  marvelous  thing  about  Voltaire's  rela- 
tions with  the  Swiss  is,  that  he  ever  pitched  his 
tent  among  them  at  all.  He  may  not  have  felt 
safe  elsewhere,  for  he  had  memories  of  the  Bastile. 
The  court  at  Versailles  was  hostile ;  the  Sorbonne 
was  inexorable.  Satan  himself,  abroad  with  un- 
mistakable hoof,  horn,  and  tail,  could  hardly  have 
been  more  alarming  to  the  Catholic  doctors ;   still 

the    irrepressible   satirist    had    as  yet  the  freedom 

« 

of  most  of  Europe,  He  had  lived  and  written 
for  years  at  Cirey  with  Madame  du  Ch^telet ;  he 
was  a  favorite  at  the  little  court  of  Lun^ville ;  the 
Elector  Palatine,  Charles  Theodore,  wished  to  im- 
press him  into  the  court  of  Mannheim  ;  and  several 
of  the  German  princes  were  ambitious  to  possess 
him.  The  Low  Countries  were  as  good  a  refuge 
for  literary  freethinkers  as  Switzerland  was  for  the 
theologians.  Spinoza  had  died  in  peace  in  the 
former ;  Servetus  had  died  at  the  stake  in  the  lat- 
ter. The  public  executioner  still  burned  proscribed 
books  before  the  Hotel  de  Ville  of  Geneva,  and  was 
yet  to  burn  there  the  works  of  Rousseau  and  of 


252  Character-Sketches. 

Voltaire  himself.  Yet  the  gay  old  man  turned  away 
from  all  the  rest  of  Europe  for  the  Swiss  boundary. 
Whatever  was  his  chief  motive  for  going  thither, 
we  can  hardly  avoid  suspecting  that  there  was 
mixed  with  it  a  spice  of  the  humorous  mischiev- 
ousness  which  characterized  him.  He  would  not 
only  seek  an  asylum  with  the  grave  and  metaphys- 
ical Swiss,  but  also  try  his  hand  with  them,  as  he 
had  tried  it  with  the  Jesuits  and  Jansenists  in  Paris. 
At  all  events,  wherever  he  found  the  men,  he  could 
not  help  attempting  the  sport.  It  was  in  his  na- 
ture to  do  so. 

Carlyle  has  told,  fully  enough,  the  story  of  his 
rupture  with  Frederick  the  Great,  his  escape  from 
the   court  of   Berlin,   where   his   humor  was  more 

supreme  than  Frederick's  royalty ;    and  of  the  di- 

* 

atribe  of  "  the  doctor  Akakia,"  which,  in  over- 
whelming poor  Maupertuis,  the  head  of  Frederick's 
Academy,  raised  to  its  climax  the  ire  of  the  mon- 
arch. ColHni,  the  secretary  of  Voltaire,  has  told 
naively  the  story  of  the  journey  to  the  Swiss  front- 
ier: the  fantastic  scenes  at  Frankfiirt  with  Fred- 
erick's representative,  in  which  the  fury  of  the  phi- 
losopher became  superlatively  comical  :  and  the 
slow  passage  onward  in  his  own  carriage,  "  which 
was  large,  commodious,  well  suspended,  garnished 
every-where  with  pockets  and  magazines,"  abun. 
dance  of  baggage  behind  and  in  front,  several  port- 
folios within  full  of  manuscripts,  a  strong  box  for 


VoT.TAi RE— Literary  Power.  253 

his  gold,  letters  of  exchange,  and  other  precious 
effects ;  two  domestics  on  the  banc ;  the  philoso- 
pher, his  niece,  Madame  Denis,  and  the  secretary 
in  the  interior— the  whole  wheeling  along  the  high- 
way in  a  sort  of  state,  drawn  by  four,  sometimes  by 
six,  horses ;  the  philosopher  speeding  the  hours 
with  inexhaustible  humor,  and  writhing  and  jest- 
ing at  the  pinches  of  his  sciatica.  On  his  way  he  is 
greeted  by  the  famous  book-publisher  of  Geneva, 
Gabriel  Cramer,  who  comes  to  propose  an  edition 
of  his  entire  works — a  noble-looking  personage,  who 
makes  a  good  first  impression  on  the  philosopher. 
"You  are  a  printer?"  exclaimed  Voltaire;  "I 
should  have  taken  you  for  a  field-marshal.**  He 
ever  aftersvard,  says  Pastor  Gaberel,  cherished  a 
lively  affection  for  the  **  distinguished-looking  book- 
seller." Voltaire  was  a  warm  friend  of  booksellers. 
He  esteemed  their  craft  next  to  that  of  book-mak- 
ing. Except  the  "  Henriade,"  which  had  been 
published  in  London  by  subscription,  he  gave  away 
to  his  publishers  his  almost  innumerable  produc- 
tions. Many  a  fortune  has  been  made  through  his 
liberality  to  them. 

Arriving  at  Geneva,  he  negotiated  for  a  beautiful 
property,  as  a  summer  "  hermitage,"  not  far  from 
the  confluence  of  the  Arve  and  the  Rhone,  afterward 
known  as  the  D^lice :  for  his  winter  home  he  chose 
Monrion,  near  Lausanne ;  and,  meanwhile,  secured 
a  "  magnificent  house "  in   Lausanne,  and  two  es- 


254  Character-Sketches. 

tates  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  Gene- 
van frontier,  one  at  Tournay,  the  other  at  Ferney 
— the  famous  chateau  which  is  still  a  Mecca  to 
literary  pilgrims.  "  Here  I  see  from  my  bed  this 
glorious  lake,"  he  writes  from  Monrion  to  d'Alem- 
bert,  "  which  bathes  a  hundred  gardens,  at  the  foot 
of  my  terrace  ;  which  forms  a  calm  sea  in  front  of 
my  windows,  on  right  and  left,  a  stream  of  a  dozen 
leagues,  and  which  waters  the  fields  of  Savoy, 
crowned  with  the  Alps  in  the  distance."  "  I  have 
a  droll  littFe  kingdom  of  my  own  in  a  Swiss  val- 
ley," he  again  writes.  '^  I  am  as  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountain ;  with  my  four  estates  [the  Delice  being 
not  yet  secured]  I  am  on  my  four  paws.  Mon- 
rion is  my  little  cabin,  my  winter  palace,  sheltered 
from  the  cruel  north  wind.  I  wish  you  were  with 
me  in  this  delicious  abode.  There  is  no  more 
beautiful  prospect  in  the  world  ;  the  Point  of  the 
Seraglio  at  Constantinople  is  not  finer."  Though 
he  was  always  complaining  that  he  had  ''  no  stom- 
ach," he  now  exults  over  his  good  fare.  *'  Allez  !  " 
he  exclaims,  "we  need  no  sympathy;  we  have  the 
good  wine  of  La  Cote,  the  excellent  wine  of  La- 
vaux ;  we  eat  fat  young  pullets,  grouse,  and  trout 
of  twenty  pounds  weight." 

Forthwith  he  began  his  experiment  of  reforming 
the  Swiss.  He  would  Parisianize  them.  He  archly 
hints  at  his  design  of  ''  perverting"  the  "  pedantic  " 
community   "  who  preserve   the  good   memory  of 


Voltaire — Literary  Powkr.  255 

their  reformers,  submit  to  the  tyrannical  laws  of 
Calvin,  and  believe  in  their  preachers.  He  made 
hearty  acquaintance  with  the  dite  citizens  of  Lau- 
sanne, and  with  the  Bernese  gentry,  who  were  then 
masters  of  the  Canton  de  Vaud.  He  kept  open 
doors  and  a  luxurious  table.  His  facile  French 
manners  were  irresistible  even  to  the  solid  magis- 
trates. His  mansion  became  the  resort  of  the  grave 
and  the  gay ;  and,  though  now  above  sixty  years 
old,  he  .was  the  gayest  of  the  gay.  His  uncontrol- 
lable humor  kept  up  a  vivid  sensation  from  Lau- 
sanne to  Berne  on  the  one  hand,  and  to  Geneva 
on  the  other — such  a  sensation  as  bewildered  and 
bewitched  the  hitherto  sober,  cultivated  Swiss  cir- 
cles. As  the  best  means  of  their  emancipation,  he 
attempted  theatrical  entertainments,  and  extem- 
porized a  theater  in  his  own  house.  He  was  sur- 
rounded, says  Gaberel,  with  a  numerous  circle  of 
men  of  talents  and  women  of  intelligence,  and  soon 
had  them  playing  his  most  recent  dramatic  crea- 
tions, to  the  astonishment  of  themselves  and  the 
whole  canton.  Adelaide  de  Guescliyt,  L Enfant 
prodigue,  and  Zaire  were  triumphant.  He  called 
these  dramas  **  my  Birds  of  Lake  Leman."  The 
theater  had  hitherto  been  a  foreign  profanity,  in- 
admissible in  the  Protestant  cantons.  It  had  the 
charm  of  novelty,  and  the  Vaudois  nobles,  women 
as  well  as  men,  gave  themselves  enthusiastically  to 
the  study  of  their  roles,  as  assigned  by  Voltaire. 


256  Character-Sketches. 

He  was  astonished  at  their  aptness  in  the  histrionic 
art.  "  Your  Parisian  actors,"  he  wrote,  "  are  ice 
compared  with  these.  All  the  company  play  with 
ardor.  We  have  a  beautiful  theater,  an  assembly 
which  melts  into  tears.  Visitors  run  to  us  from 
thirty  leagues  around  ;  and  this  beautiful  country 
has  become  the  asylum  of  the  arts,  of  the  pleasures, 
and  of  taste.  The  actors  form  themselves ;  they 
are  fruits  which  the  Alps  and  Jura  never  before 
bore.  Caesar  never  foresaw,  when  he  came  to  rav- 
age this  little  corner  of  the  world,  that  there 
would  be  one  day  here  more  esprit  than  at 
Rome." 

For  a  time  he  seemed  to  carry  every  thing  be- 
fore him.  It  appeared  quite  possible  for  him  to 
"Parisianize"  Lausanne;  but,  while  his  humor  gen- 
erally charmed,  his  sarcasms  hurt,  and  he  could  fore- 
go no  opportunity  of  satirizing  his  best  friends.  He 
was  on  the  best  terms  with  the  Bernese  rulers ;  but 
most  of  these  honest  functionaries  had  no  great 
claims  to  culture,  and  their  officious  friendship  af- 
forded him  irresistible  opportunities  of  ridicule. 
"  Eh,  why  the  deuce.  Monsieur  Voltaire,"  said  one 
of  them  to  him,  "are  you  all  the  time  making  so 
many  verses?  For  what  good,  I  pray  you?  All 
this  leads  to  nothing.  With  your  talent,  you  could 
soon  become  something  in  this  country.  Behold 
me  ;  I  am  a  bailiff!  "  Voltaire  kept  his  table,  with 
sometimes  fifty  convives  at  it,  roaring  with  this  and 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  257 

similar  stories  ;  for,  however  poor  the  story,  he 
could  give  it  overwhelming  effect  by  his  fantastic 
humor.  The  grave  men  of  Lausanne  soon  became 
shy  of  him,  and  the  gay  ones  began  to  look  askance 
at  him  and  at  one  another;  for  who  could  tell  who 
might  be  next  flayed  alive  by  the  unconquerable 
satirist?  Haller — 'Me  grand  Haller" — the  com- 
manding Swiss  intellect  of  the  day,  seemed  alone 
to  hold  him  in  check.  Voltaire  respected  the  ge- 
nius of  this  eminent  savant,  and  coveted  his  favor- 
able opinion.  Haller  heard  Zaire,  and  gave  to  an 
enthusiastic  fellow-auditor  no  flattering  criticism 
upon  it.  *'  Eh,  Monsieur  de  Voltaire,"  said  the 
hearer,  *'  you  praise  strongly  Haller,  who  speaks  of 
you  in  a  very  different  tone."  ''  You  have  reason 
to  be  surprised,  my  friend,"  replied  the  ever-ready 
humorist ;  '*  but  it  is  quite  possible,  you  know,  that 
we  may  both  be  mistaken." 

Voltaire's  experiment  at  Lausanne  was  evidently 
failing ;  his  wit  was  too  reckless,  his  irreverence  for 
religion  too  free.  He  quarreled  with  the  city 
savants  and  disputed  with  the  clergy ;  he  saw,  at 
last,  that  it  was  time  to  decamp.  Shooting  some 
Parthian  arrows,  he  escaped  to  Geneva,  where  the 
Ddice  had  been  preparing  for  him  ;  and  not  far  off, 
almost  shaded  by  the  Jura,  Ferney  offered  him 
shelter,  just  within  the  French  boundary.  To  re- 
move to  Geneva  was  "j^"^P^rig  out  of  the  frying- 
pan  into  the  fire,"  yet  he  set  himself  down  before 
17 


258  Character-Sketches. 

the  venerable  city  of  Calvin  with  a  hilarious  ex- 
pectation of  what  might  follow.  The  little  com- 
monwealth was  still  an  independent  republic,  and 
remained  such  till  1814.  It  would  seem  to  have 
been  the  last  place  on  the  planet  for  the  foremost 
humorist  and  skeptic  of  the  age.  But  the  incom- 
patibility between  the  man  and  the  place  may  have 
been  one  of  its  attractions  to  him.  It  piqued  his 
self-confident  humor.  Geneva  retained  yet  its  old 
*'  orthodoxy."  It  had  no  theater — had  never  had 
one,  except  as  an  occasional  indulgence  to  foreign 
embassadors  and  their  retinues,  and  then  only 
in  their  residences.  It  possessed  many  wealthy 
and  highly  cultivated  families ;  but,  though  the 
French  language  was  its  vernacular,  the  French 
manners,  and  especially  the  French  skepticism  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  had  hardly  penetrated  the 
city.  The  successive  issues  of  the  ''  Encyclopedia" 
were  received  there  with  extraordinary  interest,  and 
even  caused  a  sort  of  intellectual  ^nieute,  as  they 
did,  indeed,  generally  in  Europe,  by  the  prodigious 
scheme,  ability,  and  bold  speculations  of  that  nota- 
ble work  ;  but  the  Genevese  discriminated  between 
its  science  and  its  skepticism,  and  remained  firm  in 
their  religious  traditions.  D'Alembert's  famous 
article  on  "  Geneva,"  in  which  he  pronounced  the 
preachers  of  the  city  Socinians,  was  clamorously 
resented.  It  called  forth  formal  protests  of  their 
orthodoxy,   and    strengthened    the    loyalty   of  the 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  259 

people  to  their  old  faith  and  Church.  At  Voltaire's 
arrival  the  "  venerable  company  of  pastors "  had 
still  powerful  sway,  and  the  more  than  Spartan 
regime  o{  Calvin  had  been  but  slightly  modified. 
All  citizens,  high  and  low,  were  required,  by  that 
rdgime,  to  be  out  of  bed  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  in  summer,  and  at  six  in  winter.  *'The 
lodging,  the  nourishment,  the  clothing,  the  diver- 
sions, the  expenses  of  the  people  were  determined 
by  inflexible  regulations,"  says  Pastor  Gaberel. 
The  '*  Consistoire  "  was  an  ecclesiastical  tribunal 
which  watched,  with  Argus  eyes,  the  manners  as 
well  as  the  morals  of  the  citizens;  making  no  dis- 
tinction between  the  social  classes,  censuring  or 
punishing  with  equal  severity  the  highest  magis- 
trate and  the  humblest  citizen,  the  millionaire  and 
the  peasant,  the  military  chief  and  the  simple  sol- 
dier. The  citizens  had  furniture  only  of  ordinary 
wood.  The  law  required  that  they  "  should  have 
on  their  tables,  on  ordinary  days,  only  two  dishes, 
one  of  animal,  the  other  of  vegetable  food,  without 
pastry."  The  savants  of  the  commonwealth  (and 
they  were  comparatively  numerous)  were  as  "  or- 
thodox "  as  the  **  venerable  company  of  pastors." 
Voltaire  could  expect  no  sympathy  from  them. 
Abauzit  ranked  foremost  among  them  ;  Voltaire 
and  Rousseau  both  revered  him.  **  I  have  been 
a  long  time  traveling  in  order  to  see  a  superior 
man,"  said  an  eminent  visitor  to  Ferney.     "  You 


26o  Character-Sketches. 

have  been,  then,  to  Geneva  to  see  Abauzit,"  re- 
joined Voltaire.  Rousseau  said  the  age  had  pro- 
duced but  one  philosopher,  "  the  wise  and  virtuous 
Abauzit."  But  Abauzit  was  profoundly  Christian. 
Equally  so  were  the  great  physicians,  geologists, 
botanists,  etc.,  who  then  rendered  the  city  famous 
throughout  Europe — Deluc,  de  Saussure,  Bonnet, 
Trembly,  Odier,  Tingry,  Vieusseux,  and  Tronchin. 
Bonnet  published  a  "Defense  of  Christianity,"  which 
is  remarkable  for  its  ability.  It  is  improbable  that 
there  ever  has  been  another  European  city  the  elite 
minds  of  which  were  so  uniformly  and  profoundly 
religious.  D'Alembert  acknowledged,  in  the  Ency- 
clopedia, that  all  the  savants  at  Geneva  are  distin- 
guished from  their  cofifr^res  of  France  and  Germany 
by  a  complete  adhesion  to  the  evangelical  dogmas." 
Voltaire  was  amazed  at  the  fact,  but  confronted  it 
with  defiant  humor.  He  found  a  small  yet  ram- 
pant party  of  the  citizens  who  were  restless  under 
the  prevailing  puritanical  regime — men  and  women 
who  had  been  to  Paris  and  had  brought  home  *'  lib- 
eral "  ideas.  These  he  hoped  to  enlist  as  his  first 
recruits,  and,  with  them,  overthrow  and  confound 
the  solid  savants  and  stolid  pastors. 

He  repeated  the  tactics  he  had  attempted  at  Lau- 
sanne, particularly  the  histrionic  entertainments. 
An  extemporized  theater  was  ready  at  the  Delice 
even  before  the  mansion  itself  was  completed.  Many 
rich  families  accepted  his  invitations  with  eagerness, 


Voltaire — Literary  Power.  261 

and  "  the  poet,"  says  Pastor  Gaberel,  "  had  nothing 
more  pressing  on  his  hands  than  to  get  up  some 
comedies,  by  which  he  expected  to  subdue  the 
Genevan  society."  The  young  barbers  and  perru- 
quiers  of  the  city  had  already  been  preparing  the 
way  for  him,  by  acting  in  private  Mahomet,  Cinna, 
Le  Mort  de  Cdsar,  etc.  The  "  Consistorie "  had 
censured  them,  and  exhorted  them  to  "  observe 
better  the  orders  of  their  superiors,  and  attend  to 
their  business,  without  stopping  for  play  or  any 
other  excess."  But  these  remonstrances  had  little 
effect.  The  higher  classes,  men  of  wealth  and 
women  of  esprit,  resorted  to  D^lice,  and  turned 
actors  and  actresses  for  the  nonce.  The  city  coun- 
cil and  the  pastors  became  alarmed,  and  warned 
the  intractable  philosopher.  He  retreated  a  few 
miles,  and  constructed  another  theater  on  his  es- 
tate at  Tournay,  on  the  Genevese  frontier,  where 
he  had  fuller  liberty,  and  where  he  presented  on 
the  boards  some  artists  from  the  Com^die  Fran- 
gaise,  of  Paris,  whom  his  friend  Lekain  had  brought 
to  the  D^lice  as  guests.  Lekain  was  the  chief 
actor,  the  Talma,  of  the  times,  and  entered  heart- 
ily into  the  philosopher's  design  of  subduing  the 
"  pedantic  city."  The  city  councilors  met,  passed 
admonitory  resolutions,  and  invited  "  messieurs  the 
pastors  to  visit  the  persons  to  whom  Monsieur 
Voltaire  had  distributed  rdles,  and  engage  them  to 
abstain."     The  warning  applied  particularly  to  the 


262  Character-Sketches. 

Delice ;  but  when  the  crafty  innovator  betook  him- 
self and  his  tempting  gayeties  to  Tournay,  the 
council,  at  the  instance  of  the  alarmed  pastors,  re- 
peated and  enlarged  its  prohibition,  expressly  for- 
bidding all  subjects  of  the  State  to  assist  in  the 
representation  of  pieces,  whether  within  its  terri- 
tory or  its  environs." 

Voltaire  resented  these  proceedings  as  a  chal- 
lenge. He  resolved  to  return  to  the  Delice,  and  re- 
open there  the  contest  in  sight  of  the  city.  ''  We 
will  play  our  comedies  at  the  Delice,"  he  wrote  to 
Paris ;  **  we  will  play  them  in  spite  of  these  Gene- 
van perruquesT  He  was  determined  now  to  make 
a  demonstration,  and  he  sent  again  to  Paris  for 
Lekain.  **  I  expect  Lekain,"  he  wrote  to  D'Argen- 
tal ;  '*  he  will  declaim  verses  to  the  children  of 
Calvin.  Their  manners  are  much  softened ;  they 
would  no  more  burn  Servetus."  His  humor  be- 
came audacious,  for  there  was  a  fascination  to  him 
in  this  encounter  with  the  dignities  and  gravities 
of  the  little  commonwealth.  Travelers  of  our  day 
know  well  "  Calvin's  chair  "  in  the  old  cathedral, 
the  scene  of  his  pulpit  labors.  On  Sundays  it  is 
still  in  the  pulpit  for  the  preacher;  but  on  other 
days  it  stands  below  for  the  reverent  eyes  of  the 
visitors,  few  of  whom  fail  to  gratify  their  self-com- 
placence by  sitting  in  it.  Voltaire  writes  :  "  Apro- 
pos of  Calvin,  I  intend  to  play  a  joke  which  will 
startle  the  Geiievese.     I  shall  procure  an  old  arm- 


Voi/IAIkl-: — LilKKAkN     I'OWKK.  20J 

chair  which  was  used  by  their  reformer;  I  will  u?e 
it  on  the  boards  in  the  conversation  between  Au- 
gustus and  Cinna.  What  a  hubbub  this  will  make 
when  the  preachers  hear  of  it !  "  Some  days  later 
he  wrote :  ''Eh  bieUj  I  have  triumphed  !  I  have 
made  all  the  council  of  Geneva  weep.  Lekain  has 
been  sublime,  and  I  corrupt  the  youth  of  this 
pedantic  city."  He  alludes  to  the  charge  of  the 
pastors  and  councilors  against  theaters — that  they 
corrupt  the  popular  morals.  He  dictated  to 
D'Alembert,  who  was  now  with  him,  a  part  of  the 
article  of  the  Encyclopedia  on  Geneva,  which  con- 
tends that  **  by  right  legal  regulations  the  city 
could  have  dramatic  spectacles,  and  yet  preserve 
its  morals.  Theatrical  representations  would  form 
the  taste  of  the  citizens,  would  give  them  a  finesse 
of  tact,  a  delicacy  of  sentiment,  which  it  is  difficult 
to  acquire  without  this  aid."  Rousseau  heard,  at 
the  distance  of  Paris,  of  the  struggle  going  on  be- 
tween his  native  city  and  his  great  rival,  and, 
though  himself  a  writer  for  the  theater,  he  entered 
the  lists  against  it.  He  boasted  on  all  his  title- 
pages  that  he  was  a  "  citizen  of  Geneva,"  for  he 
was  proud  of  the  republic.  He  sent  forth  his 
famous  treatise  (of  2CX)  pages)  against  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  drama  among  his  Spartan  fellow-citizens, 
predicting  that  it  would  despoil  them  of  their 
democratic  virtues.  It  is  the  most  powerful  argu- 
ment ever  written  against  the  theater.     It  was  not 


264  Character-Sketches. 

difficult  to  convince  the  pastors  and  the  savants 
of  the  city;  for  though  they  knew  that  the  Athenian 
tragedies — the  immortal  remains  of  ^schylus, 
Sophocles,  and  Euripides — are  the  most  religious 
documents  which  remain  to  us  from  the  Greek 
literature,  they  knew  also  that  Aristophanes  was 
their  more  popular  companion.  Rousseau's  essay 
enraged  Voltaire,  but  did  not  discourage  him. 
"  The  Consistoire,"  "  says  Pastor  Gaberel,  ''  joined 
itself  to  Rousseau,  and  promoted  his  remonstrance." 
But  Voltaire,  always  gleeful  in  fight,  announced 
with  great  noise  the  opening  of  a  theater  at  the 
Chatelaine,  not  far  from  the  D^lice.  The  ''  com- 
pany of  pastors "  rose  as  one  man  against  the 
audacity  of  the  philosopher,  and  ordered  a  general 
pastoral  visitation  of  all  the  parishes,  in  order  to 
"  obtain  pledges  of  abstinence  from  the  citizens.'* 
They  obtained  them  so  numerously  that  it  was 
believed  the  actors  would  have  to  play  to  empty 
'benches.  Voltaire  brought  Lekain  again  into  the 
field,  and  made  diligent  preparations  for  a  triumph. 
A  good  citizen,  M.  Mouchon,  who  could  not  resist 
the  temptation,  wrote  a  letter  to  his  brother,  a 
pasteur  at  Basle,  describing  Voltaire's  victory. 
**The  day  for  the  opening  was  fixed,"  he  says; 
"  the  true  patriots,  friends  of  religion  and  the 
country,  had  promised  not  to  place  a  foot  within 
the  building  ;  they  had  given  the  actors  over  to 
abandonment  and  mortification ;  they  stood  stiffly 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  265 

erect,  and  resolved  to  fight  down  the  temptation : 
but,  alas!  the  day  arrived,  and  toward  evening  all 
the  world  was  on  the  way  to  the  Chatelaine.  It 
was  as  a  procession.  They  went  in  a  furor."  They 
could  not  resist  Lekain.  Three  times  a  week  he 
played  three  pieces  of  Voltaire's,  and  fairly  dazzled 
the  little  community.  Carriages  were  hired  at 
unheard-of  prices.  The  city  could  not  furnish 
enough  for  the  demand.  Old  hacks  were  brought 
in  from  the  neighboring  towns  of  Chene  and  Ca- 
rouge.  *'As  for  myself,"  confesses  the  writer,  '*  I 
was  carried  away  with  the  general  folly;  I  could 
not  resist  it."  The  enthusiasm  rose  so  rapidly 
that  at  last  he  had  to  be  in  his  seat  by  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  at  that  early  hour  he 
found  by  his  side  an  old  magistrate  as  infatuated 
as  himself.  "  I  saw  things  sublime,"  he  says,  '*  in 
the  acting  of  Lekain ;  but  not  the  least  part  of  the 
spectacle  was  Voltaire  himself,  seated  against  the 
^rst  coulissCy  in  view  of  all  the  spectators,  applauding 
as  one  possessed,  striking  the  floor  with  his  cane, 
and  shouting  aloud  his  plaudits,  or  helping  the 
tragic  effect  with  his  handkerchief  at  his  eyes."  At 
the  end  of  one  of  the  scenes  the  exultant  poet  ran 
after  Lekain  on  the  stage,  seized  his  hand,  and 
embraced  him  before  the  excited  people.  He  re- 
sembled an  old  man  "  de  co7nMe,'*  for  he  was 
"  clothed  in  the  costume  of  the  good  old  times, 
and  could  sustain  his  trembling  limbs  only  by  the 


266  Character-Sketches. 

aid  of  his  cane  ;  his  face  wore  all  the  traces  of  de- 
cay; his  cheeks  were  hollow  and  wrinkled,  his  nose 
long,  his  eyes  sunken,  but  full  of  fire."  The  scene, 
as  more  fully  described  by  Mouchon,  was  thorough- 
ly Voltairian.  The  triumph  of  the  old  humorist 
was  complete.  The  Chatelaine  theater  was  kept 
open  till  1766,  when  the  performances  were  trans- 
ferred within  the  walls  of  the  city.  "  The  theater," 
wrote  Voltaire,  "  is  within  the  city.  In  vain  has 
Jean  Jacques  played  the  part  of  a  fool  in  this 
affair."  Some  two  years  later,  however,  the  builds 
ing  was  burned  down.  Many  of  the  good  people 
arriving  at  the  place  with  their  buckets  full  of  water 
emptied  them  into  the  street,  exclaiming  '■'Eh  bien! 
it  is  only  the  theater.  Let  those  who  will  extin- 
guish the  fire."  Voltaire,  indignant,  cried  out, 
"Ah,  this  Geneva  I  when  one  believes  he  holds  it, 
all  escapes  him.  Perruques  and  little  wigs,  it  is  all 
one !  "  He  could  not  be  defeated,  however.  He 
re-opened  the  Chatelaine,  and  at  last  re-entered  the 
city,  where  the  theater  has  ever  since  remained, 
and  is  to-day  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  public 
edifices. 

He  now  sought  new  occasions  for  his  humorous 
warfare  against  "  the  devots  fantastiques  and  clergy 
at  Geneva."  He  delighted  to  provoke  and  humble 
the  Consistoire,  the  tribunal  by  which  the  pastors 
maintained  their  rigorous  censorship.  If  he  could 
break  its  power,  he  would  "modernize,"  "civilize," 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  267 

as  he  thought,  the  whole  commonwealth.  One 
Robert  Covelle,  a  citizen  of  somewhat  "  violent 
:haracter,"  was  cited  before  this  assembly,  to  be 
/eproved  for  some  bad  example.  Its  president  or- 
dered him  to  kneel  down  and  penitently  receive  the 
reprimand.  For  two  hundred  years  this  humble 
attitude  had  been  customary  before  the  venerable 
ecclesiastical  body.  The  most  eminent  sinners  had 
reverently  conformed  to  it,  happy  to  escape  severer 
humiliation ;  but  Covelle  stoutly  refused,  and  asked 
two  weeks  for  reflection  on  the  demand.  Mean- 
while Voltaire  wrote  for  him  a  m^moire  of  "  re- 
markable ability"  against  it.  Covelle  re-appearing 
before  the  hitherto  inexorable  tribunal,  obstinately 
continued  to  decline  its  demand,  and  threatened 
to  publish  "  this  essay  against  genuflection."  ''  Be- 
hold how  great  a  matter  a  little  fire  kindleth ! " 
Covell's  tmhnoire  was  published,  and  he  soon  had 
the  whole  community  by  the  ears.  He  became  a 
sort  of  religious  hero  protesting  against  a  judicial 
profanation.  The  affair  took  the  proportions  of  a 
public  question.  The  '*  fierce  democracie  "  of  Ge- 
neva were  ever  ready  for  any  such  question.  They 
argued  that,  however  long  this  humiliating  formal- 
ity had  been  inscribed  in  the  municipal  ordinances, 
the  times  had  changed,  and  the  city  should  change 
the  "painful  custom;"  that  it  was  a  fag-end  of 
popery;  that  repentance  is  an  affair  between  the 
conscience  and  the  divine  Judge;  thatmAsu^ 

jfly-^^  THE         «^ 


268  Character-Sketches, 

kneel  only  before  God,  and  Christ  has  taught  that 
this  duty  should  be  performed  in  profound  secrecy, 
without  witnesses ;  that  no  priest  or  other  man 
should  intervene  between  the  creature  who  repents 
and  the  Creator  who  pardons.  For  some  time  the 
astonished  Consistoire,  seldom  or  never  before  chal- 
lenged since  the  day  of  Calvin,  would  not  yield. 
The  question  was  not  only  discussed  with  ever-in- 
creasing heat  in  thp  streets,  the  wine-shops  and  the 
homes  of  the  people,  but  the  press  teemed  with 
pamphlets  about  it.  These  collected  publications 
make  three  great  volumes,  which,  says  the  good 
ancien pasteiir,  Gaberel,  "are.most  indigestible  read- 
ing." Voltaire  was  in  his  glory  amid  this  ''  con- 
fusion worse  confounded "  of  popular  and  cleri- 
cal dialectics.  His  ironical  humor  had  never  found 
a  better  field.  He  published  his  famous  poem,  the 
Guerre  de  Geneve,  (War  of  Geneva.)  He  struck 
with  his  satiric  scourge  right  and  left,  front  and 
rear,  against  the  traditional  notions  and  customs 
of  the  city.  He  rained  pleasantries  on  the  clergy, 
some  of  which  Pastor  Gaberel  admits  **  are  very 
spirituelley  He  dealt  freely  and  even  grossly  in 
calumnies;  he  sacrificed  Rousseau,  and  Paris  re- 
echoed back  to  Geneva  his  Olympian  laughter. 
The  whole  affair,  so  religiously  grave  at  first,  had 
taken  an  aspect  of  ridicule,  and  suddenly  subsided 
after  Voltaire's  poem.  The  city  council  abolished 
the  custom  of  kneeling  before  the  venerable  Con- 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  269 

sistoirc,  the  obstinate  Covelle  escaped  his  repri- 
mand, and  Voltaire  was  exultant.  Covelle  even 
demanded  to  be  admitted  again  to  the  eucharist, 
then  one  of  the  highest  conditions  of  citizenship  in 
Geneva.  The  Consistoire  required  him  to  show  his 
fitness  for  it  by  denying  twelve  letters,  written  and 
published  in  his  name  by  Voltaire,  and  by  renounc- 
ing a  pension  of  300  francs  a  year  settled  on  him 
by  the  philosopher.  Covelle  refused  all  their  req- 
uisitions. They  gave  up  the  useless  struggle ; 
"  and,"  says  Gaberel,  naively,  "  the  Consistoire  de- 
cided not  to  occupy  itself  any  more  with  this  in- 
dividual, which  was  certainly  the  wisest  course  it 
could  take."  This  fracas  about  a  matter  of  ancient 
ceremony  was  really  the  beginning  of  that  declen- 
sion of  the  power  and  censorship  of  the  Consistoire 
which  is  to-day  complete.  No  clergy  is  more  re- 
spected, no  laity  more  free,  than  those  of  Geneva, 
and  we  doubt  whether  either  regrets  the  victory  of 
the  unexemplary  Covelle  and  the  Democritan 
"patriarch." 

But  we  delay  too  long  with  Voltaire  at  the 
Delice ;  let  us  follow  him  to  Ferney.  It  is  less 
than  five  miles  from  Geneva,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Jura,  with  the  Alps  towering  in  the  background. 
He  could  still  overlook  his  favorite  field  of  battle. 
"  When  I  shake  my  wig,"  he  said,  "  its  powder 
dusts  the  whole  republic."  A  beautiful  refuge  had 
the  old  man  prepared  here  for  his  declining  years-; 


270  Character-Sketches. 

and,  in  a  letter  to  Madame  Du  Defifand,  he  declares 
that  he  is  at  last  thoroughly  happy.  The  mansion 
is  invisible  from  the  highway ;  a  long  avenue  shaded 
by  superb  trees  leads  to  it,  passing,  within  a  rod 
from  its  front,  the  stone  chapel  built  by  the  philos- 
opher for  the  villagers,  which  still  bears  the  notable 
inscription,  "  Deo  Erexit  Voltaire,"  erected  to  God 
by  Voltaire.  The  theater,  which  stood  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  avenue,  has  disappeared.  The 
mansion  itself  is  simple,  but  not  inelegant ;  it  looks 
down  cheerfully  on  its  front  flower  garden,  inclosed 
by  a  lofty  grille  fence.  Behind  it  extend  terraced 
walks,  with  arbors,  a  fountain,  and  umbrageous 
colonnades  of  trees  planted  by  the  "  patriarch," 
under  the  shelter  of  which  he  composed  many  of 
his  works.  It  commands  the  best  view  of  Mont 
Blanc  anywhere  seen  in  Switzerland.  All  within  the 
chateau  wears  an  aspect  of  snug  comfort  and  simple 
elegance.  Certain  rooms  are  kept  as  he  left  them ; 
there  is  his  sleeping-room,  with  its  bed  and  prim 
embroidered  chairs  intact :  his  little  adjacent  sit- 
ting-room, with  his  marble  cenotaph,  designed  by 
the  Marchioness  de  Villette  to  enshrine  his  heart. 
The  walls  are  covered  with  paintings — oil  portraits 
of  his  royal  correspondents,  Frederick  the  Great, 
Catherine  of  Russia,  Madame  Du  Chatelet,  the 
actor  Lekain ;  and  numerous  engravings  of  Wash- 
ington, Franklin,  Newton,  d'Alembert,  Helvetius, 
Diderot,  and  other  notabilities  of  his  times. 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  271 

Voltaire  really  founded  Ferney ;  when  he  went 
there  it  consisted  of  a  few  huts;  he  left  it  finally 
with  more  than  1,200  inhabitants  and  a  flourishing 
business.  He  was  lavish  with  his  money  in  aiding 
the  villagers,  and  they  were  gratefully  attached  tt 
him.  He  was  rich  ;  for,  like  most  first-rate  men  of 
intellect — Shakspeare,  Goethe,  Walter  Scott,  and 
others — he  never  believed  that  pecuniary  reckless- 
ness or  incapacity  is  an  essential  attribute  of  genius. 
Though  he  gave  away  his  copyrights,  he  managed 
skillfully  his  early  resources,  and  died  with  an  an- 
nual income  of  nearly  two  hundred  thousand  livres. 
This  was  enormous  wealth  for  a  man  whose  whole 
work  was  literary,  and  money  in  his  time  was  worth 
more  than  twice  its  present  value.  He  was  an  adroit 
dealer  in  the  public  stocks.  Bungener  says  that  at 
one  time  he  had  two  or  three  millions  of  capital  in 
"  a  prodigious  chaos  of  small  papers — letters  of  ex- 
change, contracts,  bills  of  every  form  and  every 
value  " — in  his  portfolio.  He  loved  to  wander  in 
this  forest  of  scraps  and  figures.  There  was  not, 
however,  a  particle  of  avarice  in  his  nature.  He 
sought  wealth  that  he  might  be  independent  of 
patrons  and  of  the  public,  and  might  speak  out 
his  opinions  more  bravely  in  the  face  of  kings  and 
people.  "  I  was  so  mortified  with  the  humiliations 
that  dishonor  letters,"  he  says,  "  that,  to  relieve 
my  disgust,  I  resolved  to  make  what  scamps  call  a 
great  fortune."     Having  got  it,  he  took  skillful  care 


272  Character-Sketches. 

of  it,  but  gave  liberally  on  all  proper  occasions. 
He  lived  sumptuously,  spending  profusely  on  his 
lands,  driving  into  Geneva  in  his  stately  coach 
drawn  by  six  horses,  keeping  open  doors  and  a 
bountiful  table.  His  house  was  often  crowded  with 
guests — fifty  at  once — representatives  of  the  liter- 
ature, the  beauty,  the  nobility,  of  the  times.  For 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  he  was  the  aubergiste^ 
as  he  said — the  innkeeper  in  general — for  Europe. 
Ferney  was  one  of  the  most  powerful  courts  on 
the  continent ;  and  Grimm  tells  us  that  its  domestic 
affairs  interested,  more  or  less,  every  court  of  Eu- 
rope. During  the  twenty  years  that  Voltaire  occu- 
pied it  he  kept  most  of  the  continent,  from  St. 
Petersburg  to  Berlin,  from  Berlin  to  Paris,  from 
Paris  to  Rome,  in  excited  expectation,  and  the 
ruling,  and  especially  the  ecclesiastical  classes,  in 
anxious  apprehension  of  what  next  should  come 
from  his  never-resting  pen.  Priests  and  kings 
dreaded  his  sarcasms.  When  nearly  two  genera- 
tions of  authors,  who  had  been  his  contemporaries, 
had  passed  away,  he  was  still  controlling  the  public 
mind — the  latest  and  freshest  writer,  incessantly 
sending  forth  something  new,  which  commanded 
attention  by  its  ability,  though  it  provoked  anath- 
emas by  its  heresy.  "  It  seemed  at  last,"  wrote 
Grimm,  "  that  the  old  man,  always  sick,  was  never 
to  die."  Unquestionably  he  and  his  correspondent, 
Frederick  the    Great,  were,  as   Morley    represents 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  2^1 

them,  the  two  most  powerful  men  then  extant  on 
the  continent.  Both  did  immense  evil,  but  also, 
let  us  hope,  great  good.  **  Voltaire  and  Frederick," 
says  Morley,  *'  were  the  two  leaders  of  the  two  chief 
movements  then  going  on  in  the  great  work  of 
transforming  the  old  Europe  into  the  new." 

But  let  us  return  to  our  incidents  or  anecdotes; 
for  these,  after  all,  are  the  truest  indices  of  a  life  or 
an  era ;  a  fact  that  biographers  and  historians  do 
not  always  sufficiently  consider.  Herodotus  was  the 
greatest  of  story-tellers,  and  the  Father  of  History. 

The  ancicn  pasteur  Gaberel  speaks  with  his 
usual  candor  and  kindliness  of  Voltaire's  good 
deeds  at  Ferney.  He  has  gathered  not  a  few 
local  accounts  of  his  charities,  and  might  have 
added  many  more  from  the  books  of  the  period. 
Collini,  his  simple-hearted  secretary,  speaks  espe- 
cially of  his  "  humane  and  compassionate  heart." 
Collini  had  to  leave  him,  while  they  resided  at 
the  D^lice,  for  reasons  not  creditable  to  the  secre- 
tary;  but  he  departed  with  deep  emotion,  and  in 
his  old  age,  nearly  a  half  century  later,  recalled  the 
D^lice  as  the  scene  of  his  best  happiness.  Voltaire 
obtained  for  him  a  good  resting-place  for  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life,  as  court  librarian  at  Mannheim, 
and  before  his  departure  conversed  freely  with  him, 
through  an  hour,  in  his  study.  "  Have  you  money 
enough?"  asked  the  patriarch.  *' Enough  for  my 
journey   and   some  time   after  it,"  replied  Collini. 

IS 


2/4  Character-Sketc.ies. 

Without  rejoining  he  went  to  his  bureau,  and, 
drawing  out  a  rouleau  of  louis,  said,  "Take  this: 
one  knows  not  w^hat  may  happen."  ''  He  embraced 
me,  and  I  quitted  with  tearful  eyes  the  mansion  of 
the  Delice."  A  poor  laborer  of  Ferney  was  im- 
prisoned for  a  debt  of  7,5CX)  francs.  Voltaire  or- 
dered it  all  to  be  paid  in  his  own  name.  His  agent 
replied  that  it  would  be  lost,  as  the  prisoner  was 
too  poor  ever  to  repay  it.  ''  So  much  the  better," 
rejoined  the  philosopher;  "one  never  loses  in  re- 
storing a  father  to  his  family,  a  citizen  to  the  State." 
A  widow  of  the  neighborhood,  with  two  children, 
was  oppressed  by  her  creditors.  Voltaire  not  only 
advanced  her  money  without  interest,  but  aided  her 
to  raise  more  by  a  mortgage  on  her  little  property. 
Still  later  he  helped  her  by  purchasing  the  property 
at  a  price  much  higher  than  its  value.  One  of  his 
villagers,  who  owed  him  600  livres,  was  reduced  to 
distress  by  the  loss  of  his  cattle;  Voltaire  sent  him 
two  good  cows  and  a  quittance  of  his  entire  debt. 
An  agriculturist  was  ruined  by  having  lost  a  case  in 
court ;  Voltaire  procured  his  papers  and  had  them 
examined  by  a  lawyer  of  Geneva,  who  reported  that 
the  poor  man  was  condemned  unjustly.  Return- 
ing him  the  papers,  Voltaire  handed  him  also  1,000 
ecus,  (crowns,)  saying,  "  There,  my  friend,  is  enough 
to  repair  the  wrongs  of  the  court.  A  new  trial  will 
only  torment  you  ;  don't  attempt  it.  If  you  wish 
to  establish  yourself  on  my  lands,  I  will  take  care 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  275 

of  your  fate."  The  Jesuits  at  Ornex  wished  to  en- 
large their  estate  by  acquiring,  at  a  miserably  depre- 
ciated valuation,  the  property  of  some  minors,  which 
was  mortgaged  for  I5,cxx)  francs,  but  worth  four 
times  that  amount.  The  ruin  of  the  family  seemed 
inevitable,  when  Voltaire  heard  of  the  danger. 
His  humanity  as  well  as  his  detestation  of  the 
Jesuits  led  him  to  interpose.  He  furnished  the 
15,CXX)  francs  necessary  for  the  release  of  the  prop- 
erty from  the  mortgage  ;  and  its  proprietors,  the 
family  de  Prez  of  Grassier,  had  so  well  improved 
his  aid  that,  at  the  subsequent  expulsion  of  the 
Jesuits  from  France,  they  were  able  to  purchase  all 
the  real  estate  of  the  Order  at  Ornex. 

He  especially  sympathized  with  literary  or  edu- 
cated sufferers.  Arnaud  de  Baculard  received  large 
sums  from  him  while  struggling  in  his  dramatic 
career.  At  his  first  success  he  wished  to  repay  his 
benefactor,  but  Voltaire  would  accept  nothing.  *'A 
child,"  he  said,  "  returns  not  the  sugar-plums  which 
his  father  has  given  him."  Thiriot,  who  had  done 
business  for  him  as  notary  clerk,  was  reduced  to  deep 
distress ;  Voltaire  sheltered  him  a  year  at  Ferney, 
procured  him  a  profitable  appointment  as  literary 
correspondent  of  Frederick  the  Great,  and,  aiding 
him  to  pack  his  trunk,  concealed  in  it  fifty  louis* 
His  charitable  interest  for  the  niece  of  Corneille  is 
well  known.  He  found  her  in  wretched  poverty, 
gave  her  a  home  in  his  clidtcau,  adopted  and  edu- 


276  Character-Sketches. 

cated  her,  made  known  her  condition  to  all  Europe, 
and  issued  a  new  and  annotated  edition  of  Cor- 
neille's  works  for  her  dowry.  The  edition  brought 
90,000  francs,  and  the  niece  of  the  poet  was  happily- 
married  and  settled  in  Ferney.  Subsequently  he 
loaned  the  family  12,000  francs.  At  the  birth  of 
their  first  child  he  called  to  congratulate  the  young 
mother,  and  left  on  her  table  an  elegant  silver  vase, 
in  which  they  found  a  quittance  of  the  whole  loan. 
This  certainly  was  handsomely  done.  And  it  is 
only  just  to  say  that  it  was  characteristic  of  the 
Vieux  de  Ferney^  whatever  diabolism  characterized 
him  in  other  respects. 

Meanwhile  his  irreverent  humor  could  not  be 
repressed  in  the  retirement  of  Ferney.  He  kept 
Geneva  astir  with  his  publications.  The  pastors 
and  magistrates  denounced  them,  and  the  book- 
sellers were  reprimanded  and  fined.  His  Candide 
and  Dictionnaire  philosophique  were  publicly  burned 
by  the  executioner.  But  he  hired,  at  a  consider- 
able cost,  a  troop  of  colporteurs,  who  insinuated  the 
obnoxious  books  into  families,  into  the  schools,  and 
even  into  the  churches.  The  pastors  had  to  organize 
a  counter  system  of  colportage,  and  for  some  time 
all  Geneva  was  in  fermentation.  The  octrois,  or 
custom-houses  at  the  gates  of  the  city,  watched 
particularly  against  the  introduction  of  the  pro- 
scribed works;  but  the  crafty  "  patriarch  "  and  his 
friends  were  a  match  for  the  perplexed  magistrates. 


Voltaire — Literary  I'ower.  277 

He  sent  to  the  council  word  that  he  had  been  in- 
formed that  on  a  certain  day  some  pernicious  books, 
maliciously  attributed  to  him,  would  be  smuggled 
into  the  city  through  a  particular  gate — ''follies 
which  I  despise,"  he  said.  *'  I  believe  it  my  duty 
to  make  this  fact  known  to  you,  and  you  will  do 
well  to  repress  such  infractions  of  the  public  order 
and  peace."  This  was  but  a  ruse.  The  attention 
of  the  bewildered  authorities  being  concentrated 
at  one  of  the  gates,  the  books  were  successfully 
brought  in  at  another — '*  a  large  cargo  of  them." 

He  maintained  the  Roman  Catholic  worship  for 
his  villagers  in  the  chapel  on  his  premises,  and  kept 
in  his  chdteau  two  cur6s  for  the  purpose ;  one  of 
whom  was  his  famous  '*  P^re  Adam,"  who  was  for 
years  his  almoner,  his  evening  companion  at  chess, 
and  of  whom  he  wrote  to  a  friend :  **  It  is  neces- 
sary not  to  deceive  yourself  about  him  —  he  is 
not  the  greatest  man  in  the  world."  The  neigh- 
boring Savoyard^  clergy  preached  stoutly  against 
the  philosopher  as  Antichrist,  and  their  rustic  pa- 
rishioners dreaded  his  very  shadow.  They  be- 
lieved him  to  be  Satan  incarnated.  Their  terror 
became  a  pleasantry  to  him.  Seeing  a  number  of 
them  together  at  work,  he  donned  his  theatri- 
cal costume  of  his  "  Mahomet,"  and,  plunging  in 
among  them,  launched  at  them  the  imprecations 
of  the  Arabian  conqueror.  The  *'  poor  Savoyards 
vanished   as  fast  as  their  legs  would  take  them," 


2/8  Character-Sketches. 

says  Pastor  Gaberel,  '^  and  the  identity  of  Voltaire 
and  Satan  was  very  solidly  established  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Rhone."  Nevertheless  he  wished,  as 
he  said,  to  be  **  exemplary  "  before  his  own  imme- 
diate and  confiding  people ;  for  Ferney  was  virtu- 
ally a  feudal  seigniory,  and  he  was  their  lord.  He 
therefore  made  his  Easter  confession  to  Father 
Adam,  and  the  next  day  marched  in  procession, 
with  his  priests  and  household,  followed  by  the 
villagers  with  halberds,  muskets,  tambours,  and 
trumpets,  to  the  little  chapel,  where  he  received  the 
communion.  But  a  more  surprising  scene  followed. 
At  the  moment  for  the  preaching,  Voltaire,  waving 
aside  his  cur6,  mounted  the  pulpit,  and  delivered  a 
fiery  sermon  against  theft,  for  a  peasant  had  re- 
cently stolen  one  of  his  cows.  He  believed  the 
thief  would  be  present  on  so  remarkable  an  occa- 
sion ;  he  denounced  him  and  apostrophized  him, 
exhorting  him  to  make  forthwith  confession  to 
Father  Adam,  and  be  thankful  to  Providence  that 
he  escaped  hanging.  He  waxed  so  warm  in  his 
harangue  that  the  cur6,  alarmed  at  the  irregularity 
of  the  scene,  and  thinking  of  his  bishop,  rushed  out 
of  the  building ;  the  peasants  precipitated  them- 
selves after  him,  and  left  the  *'  patriarch  "  to  finish 
his  sermon  and  his  ire  at  his  leisure.  The  Bishop 
of  Annecy  sent  him  a  grave  lemonstrance  ;  he  re- 
plied that  "  it  is  not  sufficient  to  rescue  one's  vas- 
sals from  the  horrors  of  poverty,  and  contribute  as 


Voltaire— LiTERARV  Power.  279 

much  as  possible  to  their  temporal  happiness  ;  it  is 
necessary  also  to  edify  them ;  and  it  would  indeed 
be  extraordinary  that  a  seigneur  of  a  parish  could 
not  do,  in  a  church  which  he  himself  has  built,  what 
all  the  pretended  reformers  do  in  theirs." 

Whether  from  fear  of  him,  or  for  other  reasons, 
high  papal  ecclesiastics  seemed  disposed  to  con- 
ciliate him.  Some  of  them  were  merry  guests  at 
Ferney.  The  Pope  accepted  the  dedication  of  his 
Mahomet,  and  even  deigned  to  correspond  with  him 
and  to  send  him  a  relic  for  his  chapel.  His  seign- 
iory was  in  the  district  of  Gex ;  the  Capuchin  order 
of  monks  had  a  house  there  ;  and  Voltaire,  to  the 
astonishment  of  all  Europe,  and  the  special  amuse- 
ment of  the  philosophers  of  Paris,  actually  ob- 
tained by  patent,  from  the  general  of  the  order  at 
Rome,  the  appointment  of  temporal  head  of  the 
brotherhood.  *'  Smile  not,"  he  wrote  La  Harpe ; 
*'  I  am  a  Capuchin,  father  temporal  of  the  convent 
of  Gex;  I  have  the  right  to  wear  the  costume,  and 
I  have  received  the  patent  from  our  venerable 
father,  the  General  d'Allembella."  To  the  Duchesse 
de  Choiseul  he  wrote :  *'  I  receive  the  cord  of  St. 
Francis,  which  I  fear  will  hardly  restore  the  vigor 
of  my  youth  ;  meanwhile  deign  to  receive  the  pa- 
ternal respects  and  the  prayers  of  Brother  Franqois 
unworthy  Capuchin^  His  letters,  as  preserved  by 
Grimm  and  Diderot,  are  ebullient  with  humor  over 
the  dignities  and  prerogatives  of  his  new  office,  with 


28o  Character-Sketches. 

his  offers  of  benediction,  of  absolution,  of  indul- 
gences, or  threats  of  excommunication  and  perdi- 
tion. "  Capuchin  as  I  am,"  he  writes  to  D'Alem- 
bert,  *'  I  extend  my  mercy  even  over  Geneva.  I 
am  father  temporal  of  the  Capuchins  of  my  little 
country.  I  will  give  you  my  malediction  if  you 
write  me  not,  and  if  you  send  me  not  whatever  you 
know  of  the  assembly  of  the  clergy.  Your  brother 
v.,  unworthy  Capuchin."  An  Irish  lord,  on  his 
way  to  Rome,  called  at  Ferney.  "  Have  you  no 
commission  for  the  Holy  Father,  monsieur  ?  "  asked 
the  guest.  "  Yes,  my  lord,"  replied  Voltaire ;  and 
writing  hastily  on  a  card,  said,  ''  Hand  him  this." 
The  guileless  Irishman,  who  knew  not  a  word  of 
French,  scrupulously  acquitted  himself  of  the  com- 
mission at  his  first  audience.  The  card^read  :  "His 
Holiness  is  entreated  to  send  to  the  philosopher  of 
Ferney  the  ears  of  the  Inquisitor-General  in  scented 
paper."  Clement  XIV.,  a  liberal-minded  pontiff, 
took  no  offense  at  the  joke,  but  wrote  on  the  re- 
verse of  the  card :  "  His  Holiness  is  very  sorry  that 
he  cannot  execute  your  commission,  but  under  the 
present  pontificate  the  Grand  Inquisitor  has  neither 
eyes  nor  ears."  This  complaisance  was  not,  how- 
ever, universal  among  Catholics.  The  Sorbonne 
and  the  French  ecclesiastics  generally  anathema- 
tized the  Capuchin  patriarch.  Nicolandot,  an  ultra- 
montane writer,  was  indignant  at  the  indulgence 
shown  him.      *'  Ferney,"  he   says,    *'  has   been  for 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  281 

twenty  years  the  capital  of  intellect.  All  monarchs 
have  been  eager  to  recognize  this  principality ;  they 
salute  it  as  the  center  of  civilization  ;  they  send  to 
the  king  of  civilization  weekly  couriers ;  they  give 
orders  to  their  embassadors  to  respect  all  his  fanta- 
sies. Parliaments  have  burned  with  desire  to  serve 
against  the  court  of  Ferney,  but  the  court  of  France 
has  let  it  alone  ;  the  Bishop  of  Annecy  has  menaced 
it  with  his  thunders,  but  the  city  of  the  Vicar  of 
Jesus  Christ  has  tolerated  its  continual  insolence 
and  gross  outrages.  Floods  of  strangers  flow  with- 
out ceasing  to  Ferney — dukes,  marshals,  acade- 
micians, priests,  journalists.  All  roads  lead  to 
Ferney,  as  to  Rome.  It  has  been  the  aristocratic 
capital  of  Esprit  in  an  age  when  all  the  world  has 
piqued  itself  on  having  ^spritT 

But  some  good  things  came  out  of  Ferney ;  splen- 
did and  beneficent  -things,  which,  amid  the  jesting 
humor  that  it  spread  over  Europe,  could  not  fail  to 
associate  with  them  an  ever-enduring  sentiment  of 
veneration.  We  have  alluded  to  the  cases  of  Calas, 
Sirven,  La  Barre,  etc.,  in  which  Voltaire  undertook 
the  bravest  fight  for  toleration  and  religious  liberty 
which  has  occured  in  France  since  the  armed  strug- 
gles of  the  Huguenots;  and  in  which  the  pastors  of 
Geneva  were  proud  to  rally  around  him,  notwith- 
standing the  vexations  he  had  so  long  occasioned 
them.  They  wended  their  way  to  Ferney  in  those 
processions  of  pilgrims  which  flocked  thither  as  dev- 


282  Character-Sketches. 

otees  on  the  highways  to  Rome ;  they  dined  at  the 
"  patriarch's  "  table  and  slept  under  his  roof,  that 
they  might  discuss  with  him  more  fully  the  wrongs 
of  their  Protestant  brethren  in  France,  and  direct 
his  labors  in  their  behalf;  they  acted  as  his  agents 
to  procure  documentary  evidence,  proceedings  of 
courts,  etc.,  for  they  knew  that  the  pen  of  no  man 
could  tell  these  sad  facts  more  effectively  than  his. 
The  frank-hearted  ancien  pasteur  waxes  eloquent 
over  the  old  man's  services  for  humanity  and  tolera- 
tion. "  In  Voltaire's  time  Frenchmen  who  rejected 
the  papal  authority  were  still  chained  in  the  galleys 
with  thieves  and  assassins  ;  their  wives  were  im- 
prisoned in  infected  dungeons ;  their  children  were 
forced  into  the  schools  of  the  monks,  and  taught  to 
curse,  before  the  cross,  the  religion  of  their  fathers. 
The  mountains  concealed  yet  in  their  fastnesses  the 
hunted  Protestants,  pursued  like  brigands  by  the 
royal  troops.  The  high  dignitaries  of  the  Church 
blessed  God  when  they  received  news  of  these 
sanguinary  persecutions.  Some  remonstrances  were 
published,  but  hitherto  without  effect.  The  '  phi- 
losophers' themselves,  bent  on  the  overthrow  of 
Romanism,  seemed  careless  of  these  individual  suf- 
ferings. Suddenly,  in  the  face  of  this  indifference 
of  the  materialists  ;  of  the  judges  who  punished 
the  crime  of  Protestant  worship  with  exile,  the 
galleys,  or  the  scaffold  ;  of  Parliaments  which  let 
the  policy  of  Rome  have  its  way ;  of  ministers  of 


VoLTAiRK— Literary  Power.  283 

state  who  bowed  before  the  persecuting  priestcraft, 
and  of  the  reckless  Hbertine  on  the  throne — arose 
one  man,  philosopher,  historian,  poet,  and  satirist, 
whose  fame  filled  Europe,  who  corresponded  with 
most  of  its  sovereigns,  whom  even  the  Pope  toler- 
ated, though  he  trampled  under  foot  the  papal 
dogmas  and  power — a  man  whose  writings  all  the 
academies,  all  the  journals,  all  the  salons,  all  the 
theaters,  all  the  people  discussed — this  one  man 
advanced  into  the  field  for  religious  liberty,  and  by 
his  immense  influence  and  activity  compelled  the 
arrest  of  fanaticism  by  the  same  laws  and  the  same 
tribunals  which  had  thus  far  sanctioned  it." 

The  younger  Coquerel  has  given  us  the  story  of 
the  Calas  family  —  a  story  made  familiar  by  Vol- 
taire over  all  Europe.  Calas  was  a  devout  Prot- 
estant, and  a  respectable  merchant  at  Toulouse. 
One  of  his  sons  turned  Roman  Catholic ;  another 
was  dissipated,  a  gambler,  and  a  drunkard.  The 
latter  had  threatened  to  renounce  his  faith  for 
popery,  but  read  books  on  suicide,  and  was  at  last 
discovered  hung  over  a  gate-way  of  his  home. 
The  father,  broken  by  the  infirmities  of  nearly 
seventy  years,  and  incapable  of  even  lifting  the 
gigantic  youth,  who  was  more  than  six  feet  in 
height,  was  immediately  accused  by  the  Catholics 
of  murdering  his  son  to  prevent  his  change  of  faith. 
His  aged  wife  and  his  daughters  were  also  implir 
cated  in  the  charge.     The  priests  harangued  their 


284  Character-Sketches. 

people  from  the  pulpits  against  the  family ;  the 
monks  said  masses  for  the  soul  of  the  dead  young 
man,  and  displayed  a  picture  representing  him  as  a 
martyr  with  a  palm  branch  in  his  hand.  The  whole 
Catholic  population  of  the  city  was  excited  to  frenzy 
by  the  ecclesiastics,  and  the  Protestants  generally 
were  accused  of  murdering  their  children  when  they 
showed  a  disposition  to  join  the  Catholics. 

A  Catholic  magistrate  prosecuted  the  case  with 
relentless  zeal,  till  the  court  condemned  the  old 
man  to  the  ''  ordinary  "  and  *'  extraordinary  "  tor- 
ture, and  then  to  be  broken  on  the  wheel,  and  at 
last  consumed  at  the  stake.  Lacerated  by  the  tor- 
ture, the  venerable  man  was  driven  in  an  open  cart 
through  the  streets  of  the  city,  shoeless  and  clothe- 
less,  except  his  shirt,  and  was  made  to  kneel  on  the 
pavement  in  front  of  the  Catholic  church.  Thence 
he  was  carted  again  through  the  city  to  the  place 
of  execution.  He  met  his  frightful  fate  with  meek 
heroism.  Stretched  on  a  cross,  his  limbs  were 
broken  in  twelve  places  by  an  iron  bar.  At  the 
first  blow  a  single  exclamation  escaped  him ;  the 
remainder  he  bore  in  silence.  A  mangled,  quiver- 
ing wreck  of  humanity,  he  was  extended  on  the 
wheel,  with  his  face  upward,  that  he  might,  accord- 
ing to  the  atrocious  sentence,  thus  *'  repent  through 
whatever  hours  of  life  it  might  please  God  yet  to 
give  him."  The  stake  meanwhile  was  ready  by  his 
side.     During  two  hours  he  still  suffered,  when  the 


VoLTAiRt:— Literary  Power.  285 

executioner  strangled  him,  and,  casting  his  mangled 
remains  among  the  fagots,  reduced  them  to  ashes. 

Such  was  the  story  with  which  Voltaire  appalled 
Europe.  He  sent  for  the  family  of  the  Protestant 
martyr,  and,  protecting  them  under  his  own  roof, 
learned  the  facts  from  their  own  lips.  **  He  wept 
hot  tears,"  says  Pastor  Gaberel,  "and  his  frame 
trembled  with  emotion."  He  resolved  to  fight  all 
the  priestcraft  of  France ;  if  need  be,  to  obtain  an 
eclatante  rehabilitation — "  a  splendid  rehabilitation" 
— of  the  heroic  martyr.  He  corresponded  with 
many  of  the  sovereigns  of  Europe  about  it  inces- 
santly; he  roused  all  his  philosophic  friends  at 
Paris  and  elsewhere ;  he  kept  the  journals  ringing 
with  it ;  he  had  friends  at  the  court  of  Versailles 
who  were  not  allowed  to  rest  till  they  did  their 
utmost ;  he  reduced  the  evidence  of  the  case  to 
brief  and  pungent  "  Memoirs,"  which  could  not  fail 
to  be  read  with  compassion  and  horror.  Nearly 
four  years  he  spent  thus  battling  for  toleration  and 
liberty  of  conscience  in  the  name  of  a  private,  a 
dead  man. 

At  last  the  king  was  compelled  to  act ;  the  court 
at  Versailles  ordered  a  revision  of  the  case  at  Tou- 
louse, over  the  ashes  of  the  martyr,  so  to  speak. 
The  Church  trembled  for  the  result ;  it  had  found 
its  match  in  a  single  man,  whose  pen  in  the  right 
was  mightier  than  all  its  crosiers  and  priests  in  the 
wrong.     The  judicial  revision   broke  the  sentence, 


2S6  Character-Sketches. 

vindicated  the  innocence  and  honor  of  the  father 
and  his  family,  and  stamped  with  the  guilt  of  mur- 
der the  fanaticism  of  the  papists.  The  Catholic 
magistrate  who  had  been  most  active  in  the  perse- 
cution committed  suicide.  The  king  gave  the 
widow  36,000  livres,  and  "  France,"  says  Pastor 
Gaberel,  '*  received  the  greatest  lesson  in  toleration 
that  has  ever  struck  the  heart  of  a  people."  Vol- 
taire afterward  published  an  essay  on  religious  lib- 
erty which  fortified  his  victory. 

The  case  of  Calas  was  not  yet  finished  when  the 
pastors  of  Geneva  brought  to  him  another  sufferer, 
Sirven,  from  a  small  town  of  Languedoc.  His 
young  daughter  had  been  shut  up  in  a  nunnery  by 
the  authority  of  an  ofificial  lettre  de  cachet^  under 
pretense  that  she  was  inclined  to  be  a  Catholic. 
The  sisters  found  her  to  be  an  intractable  catechu- 
men. She  escaped  at  night,  and,  making  her  way 
homeward,  fell  into  an  unguarded  well  and  was 
drowned.  The  Catholics  accused  her  parents  of 
murdering  their  child.  The  father  and  mother  had 
to  flee,  for  the  yet  undetermined  case  of  their  fel- 
low-Protestants at  Toulouse  warned  them.  They 
made  their  way  toward  Geneva,  but  on  the  heights 
of  the  Cevennes  the  broken-hearted  mother  per- 
ished in  the  snows ;  the  father  reached  the  city  of 
refuge.  Voltaire  "  shuddered  at  the  story  of  the 
physical  torture  and  moral  suffering  of  this  afflicted 
man."     As  soon  as  the  Calas  case  would  allow  him, 


VOLTAIRK— LiTF.RARV    P')\vi:r.  ^S/ 

he  undertook  this  new  one  with  redoubled  energy. 
Again  all  Europe  rang  with  his  remonstrances 
and  denunciations.  To  the  pastor,  Moulton,  who 
was  his  most  intimate  co-laborer  in  this  and  the 
Calas  affair,  he  wrote :  "  I  am  sick,  but  I  should  die 
content  with  the  hope  of  seeing  toleration  estab- 
lished ;  intolerance  dishonors  human  nature ;  we 
have  too  long  been  below  the  Jews  and  Hottentots. 
I  embrace  you  tenderly ;  come  and  pass  a  night  at 
my  house  ;  let  us  converse  more."  The  battle  was 
again  a  long  one,  but  Voltaire  never  wavered.  At 
last  he  received  private  word  from  the  President  of 
the  Parliament  of  Languedoc  that  the  case  was 
about  concluded,  and  he  wrote  to  Moulton :  **  It  is 
no  more  doubtful  that  this  family  will  be  re-estab- 
lished in  its  honor  and  property,  and  that  the  in- 
famous arrest  which  condemned  it  to  death  will  be 
broken,  like  that  of  Calas.  It  required  but  two 
hours  to  condemn  this  virtuous  family  to  death, 
but  it  has  cost  us  nine  years  to  obtain  justice  for 
them." 

He  next  took  in  hand  with  equal  vigor  the  case 
of  the  Chevalier  de  la  Barre.  One  of  those  cruci- 
fixes which  stud  the  highways  of  Catholic  Europe 
was  found  mutilated  on  the  bridge  at  Abbeville. 
A  citizen,  who  was  an  enemy  of  the  father  of  La 
Barre,  sought  evidence  among  the  lowest  people  by 
which  to  accuse  his  son,  who  was  but  eighteen 
years    old.      The    Bishop    stirred    up    the    popular 


288  Character-Sketches. 

fanaticism  by  processions  to  the  insulted  crucifix, 
and  at  his  instance  La  Barre  and  D'Etallonde, 
his  companion,  about  the  same  age,  were  sentenced 
to  have  their  tongues  and  right  hands  cut  off,  and 
then  be  burned  alive.  The  sentence  was  changed 
by  the  Parliament  of  Paris  to  decapitation,  which 
was  inflicted  on  La  Barre,  but  D'Etallonde  escaped^ 
and  found  shelter  with  Voltaire,  who  provided  for 
his  education,  and  induced  Frederick  of  Prussia  to 
appoint  him  lieutenant  of  engineers  in  his  army. 
The  evidence  against  these  youths  was  altogether 
unreliable  and  quite  frivolous.  Voltaire  was  ap- 
pealed to  by  the  father  of  La  Barre  to  vindicate 
the  honor  of  his  dead  boy  and  of  his  family.  *'  The 
letter,"  says  Voltaire,  "  was  such  as  to  rend  my 
heart."  He  was  old  and  sick,  and  after  his  other 
contests  needed  rest,  as  he  wrote  to  Moulton  ;  but 
in  the  case  of  La  Barre  and  his  comrade  "  his 
tenacity,"  says  Morley,  "was  still  more  heroic, 
more  amazing,  than  in  those  of  Galas  and  Sirven." 
Through  twelve  years  he  struggled  for  the  rehabili- 
tation of  La  Barre,  and  if  he  did  not  obtain  a  re- 
vision of  the  case  from  the  court,  he  obtained  it 
from  the  greater  tribunal  of  the  public  opinion  of 
all  Europe. 

These  are  not  the  only  examples  of  his  heroic 
devotion  to  humanity  and  tolerance.  During  most 
of  the  remainder  of  his  life  he  was  busy  seeking 
redress  for  similar  wrongs.      The  last  one   ended 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  289 

only  with  his  death.  It  was  that  of  General  Lally, 
who  had  lost  the  French  dominion  in  India  to  En- 
gland, and  was  executed  at  Paris — a  sacrifice  to 
party  policy,  a  parallel  of  the  sacrifice  of  Byng  in 
England.  Voltaire  struggled  down  to  his  eighty- 
fifth  year,  along  with  Lally's  son,  for  a  revision  of 
the  trial  and  a  reversion  of  the  sentence.  The 
news  of  his  success  came  to  him  when  he  was  on 
his  death-bed.  Five  days  before  he  expired  he 
wrote  his  last  letter ;  it  was  to  Lally's  son.  '*  Dy- 
ing I  revive,"  he  said,  "  at  this  great  news.  I  em- 
brace you  tenderly.  I  die  content."  Even  Bun- 
gener  relents  over  this  letter,  though  not  without 
an  invidious  reflection.  **  One  likes,"  he  says, 
"  to  allow  himself  to  be  moved  at  the  death-bed 
of  Voltaire  by  these  evidently  sincere  words.  But 
the  affair  was  not  the  less  commenced  with  an 
indignation  which  he  never  felt."  Lord  Brougham 
{Voltaire  et  Rousseau)  is  more  generous.  ''While 
blaming  his  errors,  so  grave  and  so  constant,"  says 
Brougham,  "we  must  admit,  nevertheless,  that  it 
would  be  thrusting  injustice  and  ingratitude  very 
far  to  forget  for  a  moment  the  immense  services 
rendered  to  the  world  by  Voltaire;  a  lasting  glory 
is  due  to  him  for  that  war,  so  long  and  so  per- 
severing, which  he  sustained  against  tyranny  of 
the  most  odious  form,  against  the  persecution  of 
opinions    and    the   violation    of    the    sacred    right 

of  human  reason.     To  no  writer  since  Luther  does 
19 


290  Character-Sketches. 

the  spirit  of  free  inquiry  owe  equal  gratitude ;  none 
has  done  more  to  deliver  human  intelligence  from 
ecclesiastical  tyranny." 

Morley  claims  special  honor  for  him  as  the  first 
great  modern  writer  who  represented  the  ''  Peace," 
or  rather  the  Anti-war,  doctrine.  He  regarded 
war  as'  consummate  folly,  a  relic  of  barbarism ; 
and  bravely  disdained  the  ridicule  wherewith  "  prac- 
tical "  men,  so  called,  treated  the  advocates  of  bet- 
ter methods  for  settling  international  disputes. 
It  was  he  that  ironically,  but  logically,  proposed 
that  the  States  of  Europe  should  import  armies  of 
monkeys  from  Africa,  and  train  these  imitative 
brutes  to  take  the  field,  and  decide  the  quarrels  of 
kings.  This  he  deemed  a  more  reasonable  as  well 
as  a  more  economical  way  of  solving  the  polit- 
ical and  ethical  problem  usually  involved  in  in- 
ternational quarrels,  than  the  barbarous  custom 
of  blowing  out  the  brains  of  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  rational  beings — citizens,  husbands,  and 
fathers. 

In  1778,  Voltaire,  after  an  absence  from  Paris  of 
nearly  thirty  years,  left  Ferney  for  the  brilliant  me- 
tropolis, which  during  all  his  exile  he  had  kept 
vividly  excited  by  his  writings,  and  where  he  was 
to  be  received  with  ovations  such  as  have  hardly 
had  a  parallel  in  literary  history.  He  thus  passes 
from  the  purview  of  our  essay,  v/hich  is  limited  to 
his  life  on  the  Swiss  frontier. 


Voltaire — Literary  Power.  291 

What  can  we,  finally,  say  of  such  a  man?  Much 
that  is  good,  as  our  pages  show,  but  more  thatMS 
bad.  Hardly  any  literary  character  has  been  treated 
with  less  impartiality.  His  friendly  critics  have  too 
much  palliated  his  faults;  Morley,  one  of  the  most 
candid,  is  not  altogether  an  exception.  His  hostile 
critics  have  been  generally  perversely  blind  to  what 
was  really  commendable  in  his  character  and  serv- 
ices ;  nearly  every  page  of  Bungener's  elaborate 
volumes  is  saturated  with  prejudice,  worse,  if  possi- 
ble, than  the  odium  thcologicu7n. 

Voltaire  was  a  born  humorist.  His  first  view  of 
any  subject  was  its  ludicrous  side,  if  it  had  any ;  and 
if  it  had  none,  its  very  gravity  or  solemnity  seemed 
to  evoke  his  innate  humor. 

He  appeared  incapable  of  the  sentiment  of  rever- 
ence; all  religions  were  to  him  but  superstitions, 
morbid  excesses  of  the  mind.  Born  a  Roman  Cath- 
olic, educated  by  the  Jesuits,  and  habitually  in  con- 
tact with  Popery,  he  always  confounded  Christianity 
with  it.  The  Genevan  pastors  found  it  impossible 
to  make  him  discriminate  between  Romanism  and 
their  Protestantism. 

He  was  thoroughly  unscrupulous.  Carlyle  shows 
that  in  his  fracases  at  Berlin  he  could  not  only  in- 
dulge in  downright  falsehoods,  but  swear  to  them. 
He  was  saved  from  heedless  perjury  only  by  the  ex- 
cessive politeness  of  a  magistrate  in  foregoing  the 
oath.     If  craniology   teaches   that   the    conscience 


292  Character-Sketches. 

has  a  local  organ  in  the  brain,  the  skull  of  Voltaire 
must  have  shown  a  cavity  rather  than  a  boss  over 
the  place  of  that  faculty.  He  habitually  played  off 
falsehoods  on  the  Genevan  magistrates  and  the 
"  venerable  company  of  pastors."  He  constantly 
disowned  his  most  flagrant  publications,  and  some- 
times affected  fiercely  to  denounce  them. 

Meanwhile  he  was  not  without  generous  quali- 
ties, as  we  have  seen.  He  had  a,  quick  sympathy 
for  all  human  sufferings.  He  was  liberal  with  his 
money.  He  made  gallant  fight  against  superstition, 
and  did  more  than  any  other  man  of  the  eighteenth 
century  to  break  down  intolerance  in  Europe.  No 
such  judicial  flagrancies  as  he  grappled  with  have 
been  permitted  in  France  since  his  day.  He  op- 
posed Christianity,  but  as  decidedly  opposed  the 
atheism  that  prevailed  among  his  philosophical 
friends  in  Paris. 

The  leader,  if  not  the  originator,  of  the  so-called 
philosophy  of  the  time,  he  had  not  a  single  attri- 
bute of  the  philosophic  character.  He  laughed  at 
its  dignities  or  severities.  He  had  no  system  of  his 
own,  but  was  content  with  Newton  in  physics  and 
Locke  in  metaphysics.  He  familiarized  these 
great  Englishmen  on  the  Continent.  His  supreme 
idea  was  the  emancipation  of  the  human  race  by 
the  advancement  of  its  intelligence;  the  supreme 
difficulty  of  the  task,  as  he  believed,  lay  in  tra- 
ditional religions.     His  method  against  these  was 


Voltaire— Literary  Power.  293 

historical  criticism  and  sarcastic  humor.  He  de- 
nounced the  writings  of  D'Olbach,  Helvetius,  and 
his  other  speculative  atheistic  friends  at  Paris;  and 
insisted  that  his  fellow-encyclopedists  should  shun 
metaphysics,  and  deal  exclusively  in  positive  facts 
and  humorous  satire.  Nothing  but  truth  can  stand 
ridicule;  Voltaire  knew  well  the  fact,  however 
egregiously  he  misapplied  it. 

To  estimate  adequately  his  character,  the  facts  of 
nearly  two-thirds  of  his  life,  antecedent  to  the  be- 
ginning of  our  sketch,  must  be  given,  and  many 
of  them  could  not  decorously  appear  in  a  decent 
publication.  Even  in  this  age  of  the  rehabili- 
tation of  notable  characters — of  Mohammed,  of 
Cromwell,  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  of  Spinoza, 
and  of  Lucrezia  Borgia — it  is  inconceivable  that 
Voltaire  can  be  effectively  rehabilitated.  His  most 
partial  disciples  must  abandon  that  hope ;  but 
meanwhile  they  can  claim  for  him  many  brilliant 
and  many  salutary  things.  They  can  assert  his 
sympathy  with  suffering  men,  his  pecuniary  chari- 
ty, his  indomitable  courage  against  the  occupants 
of  the  high  places  of  Church  and  State,  in  the  con- 
flict for  toleration  and  religious  liberty.  They  can 
claim  for  him  high  rank,  almost  sovereign  rank, 
take  him  all  in  all,  as  a  litterateur ;  they  can  assert 
that  no  man  ever  made  the  pen  a  more  effective 
power ;  that  he  was,  as  Morley  says,  the  "  very  genius 
of  correctness,  elegance,  and  grace  "  in  style  ;  that 


294  Character-Sketches. 

lie  was  the  greatest  satirist  of  his  age,  the  founder 
of  the  modern  school  of  historical  writing;  that 
he  ranks  next  to  Corneille  and  Racine  in  French 
tragedy,  though — odd  fact  for  the  greatest  humorist 
of  his  time— he  failed  in  comedy ;  that  in  his  twenty- 
eight  tragedies  are  some  of  the  best  passages  of 
French  literature,  though  his  dozen  or  more  com- 
edies place  him  in  no  proximity  whatever  to  Mo- 
li^re.  Above  all  these  merits,  infinitely  above  them, 
they  can  claim  that  he  introduced  a  new  era — the 
era  of  toleration — in  France,  which,  with  whatever 
occasional  oscillations,  has  continued  to  advance, 
and  by  which  the  ecclesiastical  oppressions  and  ju- 
dicial atrocities  of  his  own  day  have  passed  away, 
where  the  creeds  of  Protestants  and  even  of  Jews  are 
now  recognized,  protected,  and  salaried  as  parts  of 
the  national  religion.  They  put  forth  still  larger 
claims  for  him,  but  with  less  concession  from  Chris- 
tian critics — that  he  led  the  way  in  the  emancipa- 
tion of  the  intellectual  classes  of  France,  and  indeed 
of  Europe  generally,  from  Roman  traditions  and 
bigotry — an  emancipation  which  continues  and 
grows  in  spite  of  the  sacrifice,  by  the  priesthood,  of 
Bossuet's  **  Gallic  Liberties,"  and  which,  while,  as 
natural  in  such  reactions,  it  has  gone  to  the  oppo- 
site skeptical  extreme,  will,  it  is  hoped,  show  in 
time  the  equally  natural  reaction  toward  salutary 
religious  principles.  And  finally  they  may  claim 
that  he  was   a  chief  agent  in  bringing  on  the  first 


Voltaire — Literary  Power.  295 

French  Revolution,  a  movement  that,  in  spite  of 
its  stupendous  enormities,  is  now  recognized  by- 
historical  critics  as  the  epoch  of  modern  European 
history,  and  is  still  developing  beneficial,  immeas- 
urable results.  His  writings  afforded  not  a  single 
sanction  of  the  atrocities  which  attended  that 
great  event.  And,  indeed,  if  the  philosophers  who 
brought  it  on  are  negatively  responsible  for  its 
crimes  by  failing  to  provide  the  necessary  moral 
preventions,  the  ruling  and  ecclesiastical  classes 
were  positively  responsible  for  them  by  the  be- 
nighted, the  demoralized,  condition  to  which  they 
had  reduced  the  people.  But  on  these  last  two 
claims  of  Voltaire's  friendly  critics  we  cannot  en- 
large ;  they  would  require  too  much  qualification. 
We  must  here  take  leave  of  him,  with  no  little 
respect  for  his  abilities  and  with  as  much  regret 
for  his  faults. 

While  he  yet  lived,  a  devoted  Protestant,  Madame 
Necker — the  daughter  of  a  Protestant  pastor,  wife 
of  the  first  Protestant  in  the  Royal  Cabinet  of 
France,  and  mother  of  Madame  de  Stael — projected 
a  public  subscription  for  a  statue  in  commemora- 
tion of  his  services  to  their  cause,  and  thus  gave  to 
Europe  its  best  artistic  representation  of  the  vet- 
eran author.  A  Protestant  writer,  reprobating  his 
errors  while  appreciating  his  services,  may  well  share 
her  Christian  charity  and  Protestant  gratitude. 


296  Character-Sketches. 


VII. 

CHANNING — HERESY  AND   REFORM. 

I  AM  sick  of  opinions  ;  I  am  weary  to  hear 
them  ;  my  soul  loathes  this  frothy  food.  Give 
me  solid  and  substantial  religion,  give  me  a  hum- 
ble, gentle  lover  of  God  and  man ;  a  man  full  of 
mercy  and  good  faith,  without  partiality  and  with- 
out hypocrisy;  a  man  laying  himself  out  in  the 
work  of  faith,  the  patience  of  hope,  the  labor  of 
love.  Let  my  soul  be  with  these  Christians,  where- 
soever they  are,  and  whatsoever  opinion  they  are 
of."  Let  not  the  scrupulous  reader  be  alarmed  at 
this  liberalism ;  these  are  not  the  words  of  the 
heresiarch,  William  Ellery  Channing.  They  were 
written  by  one  "  John  Wesley,  late  fellow  of  Lin- 
coln College,  Oxford."  But  we  venture  the  opin- 
ion, that,  had  John  Wesley  known  personally  Will- 
iam Ellery  Channing,  he  would  have  drawn  his  por- 
trait with  such  lines  as  those  we  cite.  Southey  has 
a  paragraph  on  what  he  calls  "  Wesley's  Perfect 
Charity,"  in  which  the  poet  affirms  that  Wesley 
**  judged  kindly  of  the  Romanists,  and  of  heretics 
of  every  description,  wherever  a  Christian  disposi- 
tion and  a  virtuous  life  were  found  ;"  and  that  "  he 
published  the   lives   of    several  Catholics  and  one 


Cha'nning — Heresy  and  Reform.       297 

Socinian,  for  the  edification  of  his  followers."  This 
Socinian  was  the  ''good  man"  Thomas  Firmin. 
Wesley,  in  his  prefatory  remarks  to  the  memoir, 
says :  "  I  was  exceedingly  struck  at  reading  the  fol- 
lowing life,  having  long  settled  it  in  my  mind  that 
the  entertaining  wrong  notions  concerning  the  Trin- 
ity was  inconsistent  with  real  piety.  But  I  cannot 
argue  against  matter  of  fact.  I  dare  not  deny  that 
Mr.  Firmin  was  a  pious  man,  although  his  notions 
of  the  Trinity  were  quite  erroneous." 

This  '♦  pious  man,"  Thomas  Firmin,  was,  we 
repeat,  a  Socinian  ;  William  Ellery  Channing  was 
what  all  orthodox  believers  will  admit  to  be  much 
better :  he  was  an  Arian,  a  '*  high  Arian ;  "  but, 
more  than  this,  he  was  a  man  of  purest  sinceri- 
ty, of  profound  humility,  and  universal  charity. 
Channing  must  be  admitted,  in  fact,  to  have  been 
either  a  hypocrite  or  a  saint,  and  the  man  who, 
after  a  personal  acquaintance  with  him,  or  the 
reading  of  his  works  and  biography,  is  disposed 
to  say  he  was  a  hypocrite,  may  be  assured  that 
he  is  not  unfitted  to  be  one  himself.  We  have 
but  little  interest  in  Channing's  "  Theology ;  " 
we  deeply  regret  that  the  reproach  of  heresy  coun- 
teracts, to  a  great  extent,  the  due  influence  of 
his  noble  writings — writings  which,  notwithstand- 
ing his  dogmatic  opinions,  exhibit  powerfully  the 
real  genius  of  Christianity,  and.  in  their  applica- 
tion of  its  ethical  principles  to  the  social  progress 


29S  Character-Sketches. 

of  man,  anticipate  the  better  ages  to  come  more, 
perhaps,  than  any  other  Hterary  productions  of  our 
century.  It  is  a  delicate  task,  then,  to  which  we 
sit  down — that  of  drawing  honestly  the  portrait  of 
a  great  and  good  man,  against  whom  the  theolog- 
ical opinions  of  most  of  our  readers  so  strongly  pre- 
dispose them ;  but  we  shall  proceed  in  the  attempt 
with  determined  frankness. 

The  events  needing  chronological  note  in  Chan- 
ning's  life  are  few,  and  it  is  not  important  to  our 
present  design  to  narrate  them  fully.  He  was 
born  at  Newport,  Rhode  Island,  April  7,  1780; 
entered  Harvard  University  in  his  fourteenth  year; 
graduated  at  the  age  of  eighteen ;  spent  a  part  of  the 
two  ensuing  years  as  a  pn-ivate  tutor  in  Richmond, 
Virginia ;  returned  to  Cambridge,  as  Regent — a 
subordinate  office — in  1801  ;  was  settled  as  pastor 
of  Federal-street  Church,  Boston,  in  June,  1803  ; 
visited  Europe  in  1822;  began  his  celebrated  essays 
on  Milton,  Napoleon,  and  F^nelon,  which  dis- 
tinguish the  commencement  of  his  literary  career 
proper  in  1826;  visited  the  West  Indies  in  1830; 
commenced  his  antislavery  labors  in  1835  ;  and 
died,  October  2,  1842. 

To  the  American  public  in  general,  Channing  is 
chiefly  known  as  an  Arian  theologian  ;  while,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  where  his  writings  are 
more  current  and  better  appreciated,  his  fame  is 
chiefly  that  of  a  literary  man  and  a  philanthropist. 


Channing — Heresy  and  Reform.       299 

The  common  impression  that  he  was  the  leader  of 
the  Unitarian  movement  in  this  country  is  false. 
By  the  publication  of  his  celebrated  sermon  at  the 
ordination  of  Mr.  Sparks,  in  Baltimore,  in  18 19,  the 
doctrinal  position  of  Unitarianism  was  more  gen- 
erally made  known  in  the  American  community 
than  at  any  former  date.  By  this  accident,  and 
still  more,  perhaps,  by  the  fact  that  his  literary 
reputation  elevated  him  above  all  others  engaged  in 
the  movement,  he  became  recognized  as  its  head, 
although  it  could  boast  of  earlier  advocates  and 
abler  polemics.  "The  Baltimore  discourse  gave 
its  author,"  says  a  Unitarian  organ,  "  the  name  of 
leader  and  head  of  the  Unitarian  denomination  in 
this  country,  although  we  had  far  more  accom- 
plished theologians;  and  no  individual  was  farther 
from  claiming  any  authority  in  matters  of  opinion. 
He  was  never  the  apostle  of  a  doctrine  or  a  sect."* 

At  the  crisis  of  the  secession  of  Unitarianism 
from  Calvinistic  Congregationalism,  or  rather  the 
secession  of  the  latter  from  Unitarianism,  he  was 
somewhat  active  in  the  controversy ;  but  not  so 
much  in  defense  of  liberal  theology  as  of  liberal 
rights.  The  reader  of  his  memoirs  and  his  articles 
in  the  **  Christian  Disciple,"  the  Unitarian  organ  of 
those  times,  cannot  fail  to  see  th«t  he  exerted 
himself,  not  so  much  to  vindicate  the  new  opin- 
ions of  the  period,  as  the  right  of  his  brethren  to 

*  "Christian  Examiner,"  for  September,  1848. 


300  Character-Sketches. 

cuss  them  without  ecclesiastical  proscription ;  a 
right  certainly  unquestionable  under  the  Congre- 
gational rdgime  of  the  New  England  Churches.  He 
says  himself:  "  It  was  not  so  much  for  the  pur- 
pose of  defending  the  opinions,  as  of  encourag- 
ing fellow-Christians  to  use  their  own  minds,  and 
to  examine  freely  the  doctrines  of  religion,  that  I 
entered  the  field  of  controversy.  I  felt  then  what 
I  now  more  deeply  feel,  that  the  human  mind  is  to 
make  progress  by  freedom,  by  the  deliberate,  im- 
partial, and  independent  exercise  of  its  faculties." 

It  was,  in  fact,  that  regard  for  individual  liberty 
of  thought  which  was  the  passion,  the  moral  idio- 
syncrasy, of  the  man — the  source  alike  of  its  chief 
•excellencies  and  its  chief  errors — that  led  him  into 
the  polemical  arena  ;  and  when  he  had  manfully 
defended  the  liberty  of  the  mind,  he  paused  but 
little  to  dabble  in  the  subordinate  questions,  but 
gave  his  energies  to  more  spiritual  and  practical 
interests.  As  late  as  1841  he  says:  *' I  do  not 
speak  as  a  Unitarian,  but  as  an  independent  Chris- 
tian. I  have  little  or  no  interest  in  Unitarians  as  a 
sect.  I  have  hardly  any  thing  to  do  with  them.  I 
can  endure  no  sectarian  bonds.** 

What  were  Channing*s  theological  opinions?  To 
say  he  was  a  Unitarian,  in  the  etymological  sense 
of  the  word,  would  be  just,  and  so  it  would  be,  in  a 
measure,  to  say  the  same  of  John  Calvin,  or  John 
Wesley ;  to  say  he  was  a  Unitarian,  in  the   denom- 


Chann I NG— Heresy  and  Reform.       301 

inational  use  of  the  word  at  present  in  New  En- 
gland, would  be  very  vague  ;  for  what  is  more  vague 
than  the  existing  theology  of  New  England  Unita- 
rianism?  He  obtained  an  accidental  prominence  in 
the  Unitarian  movement ;  but  we  believe  that  the 
impartial  theological  critic  would  classify  him  most 
readily  with  Locke,  Samuel  Clarke,  Watts,  and  simi- 
lar thinkers,  and  extend  to  him  the  charity  with  which 
the  tenets  of  these  great  and  good  men  have  been 
regarded.  He  expressly  placed  himself  in  the  rank 
of  Dr.  Watts,  and  disclaimed  the  views  of  Priestley, 
Belsham,  and  Socinians  generally.  The  later  liberal- 
ism of  Unitarianism — invalidating  the  sacred  canon, 
denying  the  miracles,  the  superhuman  character  of 
Christ,  redemption  by  him,  future  retribution,  etc., 
he  did  not  share ;  and  to  his  exemption  from  these 
speculative  negations  we  attribute  the  superior  spir- 
ituality, nay,  we  are  compelled  to  say  the  holiness, 
which  was  the  very  temper  of  his  being,  and  will 
render  him,  in  the  estimation  of  the  more  impar- 
tial future,  such  an  anomaly  among  Unitarians  as 
Fenelon  was  among  Romanists.  His  biographer 
declares  :  '*  The  fact  undeniable  was,  that  while  he 
formed  the  most  free  and  generous  estimate  of  hu- 
man nature,  he  held  opinions  in  regard  to  the 
divine  government,  spiritual  influences,  a  mediator, 
and  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  which,  by  most  liberal 
Christians,  would  be  considered  rather  mystical 
than  rational." 


302  Character-Sketches. 

His  views  of  the  character  of  Christ  are  indeter- 
minate, but  full  of  reverence  and  love :  **  God  has 
given  his  own  Son,"  he  says,  '*  a  being  respecting 
whose  nature,  perhaps,  revelation  communicates  no 
precise  ideas,  but  whom  we  are  yet  taught  to  view  as 
sustaining  a  peculiar  relation  to  the  infinite  Father, 
and  peculiarly  beloved  by  him.  Jesus  Christ  is  the 
Son  of  God  in  a  peculiar  sense  ;  the  temple  of  the 
Divinity;  the  brightest  image  of  his  glory.  In 
seeing  him  we  see  the  Father.  .  .  .  We  hear  him 
claiming  the  honors  of  the  Son  of  God,  of  the 
promised  Messiah,  of  the  Saviour  of  the  world. 
We  not  only  hear  him  assenting  to  the  question, 
*  Art  thou  the  Christ  ?  '  but  adding  to  his  assent  a 
declaration  of  his  glory,  which  he  must  have  known 
would  have  been  peculiarly  offensive  to  the  Jews, 
and  applying  to  himself  language  which,  under  the 
old  dispensation,  had  been  limited  to  God — thus 
expressing  his  intimate  union  with  the  Father. 
According  to  these  Scriptures,  Jesus  Christ  is  not  a 
teacher  whose  agency  was  chiefly  confined  to  the 
time  when  he  was  on  earth.  He  ever  lives,  and  is 
ever  active  for  mankind.  He  sustains  other  offices 
than  those  of  teacher;  he  is  Mediator,  Intercessor, 
Lord,  and  Saviour.  He  has  a  permanent  and  con- 
stant connection  with  mankind,  and  a  most  intimate 
union  with  his  Church." 

While  he  dissented  from  the  precise  definitions 
of  the  atonement  usually  given  by  orthodox  writers, 


Channing — Heresy  and  Reform.       303 

and,  as  in  his  celebrated  "  New  York  Sermon,"  as- 
sailed them  w  ith  more  rhetoric  than  logic,  he  never- 
theless believed  in  redemption  through  Christ.  He 
gives  the  following  statement  of  the  opinions  of 
himself  and  some  of  his  associates:  "We  agreed, 
in  our  last  conference,  that  a  majority  of  our 
brethren  believe  that  Jesus  Christ  is  more  than  a 
man ;  that  he  existed  before  the  world  ;  that  he 
literally  came  from  heaven  to  save  our  race ;  that 
he  sustains  other  offices  than  those  of  a  teacher  and 
witness  to  the  truth ;  and  that  he  still  acts  for  our 
benefit,  and  is  our  intercessor  with  the  Father. 
This  we  agreed  to  be  the  prevalent  sentiment  of 
our  brethren.  With  respect  to  the  Atonement,  the 
great  body  of  liberal  Christians  seem  to  me  to 
accord  precisely  with  the  author  of  'Bible  News,* 
[Noah  Worcester,]  or  rather,  both  agree  very  much 
with  the  profound  Butler.  Both  agree  that  Jesus 
Christ,  by  his  sufferings  and  intercession,  obtains 
forgiveness  for  sinful  men  ;  or  that,  on  account,  or 
in  consequence,  of  what  Christ  has  done  and  suf- 
fered, the  punishment  of  sin  is  averted  from  the 
penitent,  and  blessings,  forfeited  by  sin,  are  be- 
stowed. The  doctrine  of  the  Atonement,  taken  in 
the  broad  sense  which  I  have  before  stated,  is  not 
rejected  by  Unitarians." 

This  statement  is,  however,  qualified  by  an  em- 
phatic denial  that  "  the  ever-blessed  God  suffered 
and  died  on  the  cross;"  a  denial  which  most  theo- 


304  Character- Sketches. 

logians  would  make  with  equal  emphasis.  On  this 
profoundest  of  all  subjects,  it  must  be  admitted,  in 
the  language  of  a  foreign  journal,  "  that,  though 
he  believed,  in  some  mysterious  way  which  is  not 
explained,  that  Jesus  came  to  save  the  world  ;  that 
he  himself,  if  saved  at  all,  was  to  be  so  through  the 
mediation  and  intercession  of  the  Redeemer ;  " 
yet  his  position  here  was  "  not  so  clear  and  defined 
as  that  taken  by  him  on  questions  of  infinitely  less 
importance  to  himself  and  to  others,  on  almost 
every  other  question  to  which  he  had  turned  his 
attention."  *  Still  we  believe  he  so  far  compre- 
hended, and,  above  all,  relied  upon  the  mediatorial 
office  of  our  Lord,  as  to  experience  its  efficacy  in 
his  own  soul.  Christ  was  the  ever-recurring  theme 
of  his  writings.  Christ's  teachings,  his  example, 
his  mediation — whatever  mystery  might  encompass 
it — were  to  him  the  only  hope  of  the  world,  not 
only  of  its  purely  religious  interests,  but  of  its  so- 
cial and  political,  its  temporal  and  eternal  destinies. 
He  never  refers  to  the  subject  of  Christ's  character, 
apart  from  sectarian  disputation,  without  kindling 
with  ardor;  and  if  to  be  imbued  with  the  meek- 
ness and  love  of  Christ  is  the  mark  of  true  disciple- 
ship,  then  assuredly  this  great  man  was  a  Christian. 
Channing  believed  in  regeneration,  though,  with 
many  theological  writers,  he  held  that  it  is  usually  a 
gradual  experience.     His  language  is  often  quite  as 

♦Tail's  Edinburgh  Magazine. 


CiiANNiNG— Heresy  and  Reform.       305 

strong  on  this  subject  as  the  customary  statements 
of  evangeHcal  authors:  "A  religious  character, 
then,  is  an  acquisition,"  he  says,  **  and  implies  a 
change ;  a  change  which  requires  labor  and  prayer ; 
aid  and  strength  from  Heaven  ;'  a  change  so  great 
and  important  that  it  deserves  to  be  called  a 
new  birth.  The  Christian  is  a  new  man.  By  the 
precepts,  doctrines,  motives,  promises  of  Christian- 
ity, and  by  the  secret  influences  of  God's  spirit  on 
the  heart,  he  has  been  raised  to  a  faith,  hope,  and 
love  which  may  be  called  a  new  life.  He  has  been 
born  again." 

While  at  Richmond,  surrounded  by  irreligion  and 
immorality,  he  believed  himself  the  subject  of  this 
inward  change.  He  wrote  to  his  uncle  :  *'  I  believe 
that  I  never  experienced  that  change  of  heart  which 
is  necessary  to  constitute  a  Christian  till  within  a 
few  months  past.  The  worldling  would  laugh  at 
me  he  would  call  conversion  a  farce.  But  the  man 
who  has  felt  the  influences  of  the  Holy  Spirit  can 
oppose  fact  and  experience  to  empty  declamation 
and  contemptuous  sneers.  You  remember  the  lan- 
guage of  the  blind  man  whom  Jesus  healed :  *  This 
I  know,  that  whereas  I  was  blind,  now  I  see.'  Such 
is  the  language  which  the  real  Christian  may  truly 
utter.  Once,  and  not  long  ago,  I  was  blind — blind 
to  my  own  condition,  blind  to  the  goodness  of  God, 
and  blind  to  the  love  of  my  Redeemer.  Now  I  be- 
hold, with  shame  and  confusion,  the  depravity  and 
20 


3o6  Character-Sketches. 

rottenness  of  my  heart.  Now  I  behold,  with  love 
and  admiration,  the  long-suffering  and  infinite  be- 
nevolence of  Deity.  All  my  sentiments  and  affec- 
tions have  lately  changed.  I  once  considered  mere 
moral  attainments  as  the  only  object  I  had  to 
pursue.  I  have  now  solemnly  given  myself  up  to 
God.  I  consider  supreme  love  to  Him  as  the  first 
of  all  duties,  and  morality  seems  but  a  branch  from 
the  vigorous  root  of  religion.  I  love  mankind,  be- 
cause they  are  the  children  of  God.  I  practice  tem- 
perance and  strive  for  purity  of  heart,  that  I  may 
become  a  temple  for  his  Holy  Spirit  to  dwell  in." 

He  was  some  time,  however,  advancing  toward 
this  point  of  his  spiritual  progress.  Years  prior  to 
it,  he  had  been  awakened  to  an  interest  in  religion 
during  a  reHgious  revival  in  New  London,  where  he 
was  preparing  for  college  in  the  family  of  his  uncle  ; 
while  at  Cambridge  he  made  some  progress,  and 
determined  to  devote  himself  to  the  Christian  min- 
istry; but  at  Richmond  he  emerged  into  clearer 
light;  though,  as  he  afterward  insisted,  his  conver- 
sion was  a  life-long  process.  When  questioned  by  a 
good  Calvinist  whether  he  had  not  been  converted  at 
some  time,  he  replied,  "  I  would  say  not,  unless  the 
vv'hole  of  my  life  may  be  called,  as  it  truly  has  been, 
a  process  of  conversion."  To  which  his  orthodox 
friend  unhesitatingly  answered,  "  Then,  friend  Chan- 
ning,  you  were  born  regenerated  ;  for  you  certainly 
are  now  a  child  of  God." 


Channing — Heresy  and  Reform.       307 

His  later  references  to  his  experiences  at  Rich- 
mond are  very  touching.  The  death  of  his  father 
had  reduced  the  resources  of  his  family,  and  com- 
pelled him  to  accept  the  office  of  a  private  tutor  in 
that  city.  Infidelity  and  iniquity  prevailed  around 
him  :  "  I  lived  alone,  too  poor  to  buy  books,  spend- 
ing my  days  and  nights  in  an  out-building,  with  no 
one  beneath  my  roof  except  during  the  hours  of 
school-keeping.  There  I  toiled  as  I  have  never 
toiled  since  ;  for  gradually  my  constitution'  sank 
under  the  unremitting  exertion.  With  not  a  hu- 
man being  to  whom  I  could  communicate  my 
deepest  thoughts  and  feeling,  and  shrinking  from 
common  society,  I  passed  through  intellectual  and 
moral  conflicts,  through  excitements  of  heart  and 
mind,  so  absorbing  as  often  to  banish  sleep  and  to 
destroy  almost  wholly  the  power  of  digestion.  I 
was  worn  well-nigh  to  a  skeleton.  Yet  I  look  back 
on  those  days  and  nights  of  loneliness  and  frequent 
gloom  with  thankfulness.  If  I  ever  struggled  with 
my  whole  soul  for  purity,  truth,  and  goodness,  it 
was  there.  There,  amid  sore  trials,  the  great  ques- 
tion, I  trust,  was  settled  within  me,  whether  I  would 
obey  the  higher  or  lower  principles  of  my  nature — 
whether  I  would  be  the  victim  of  passion,  the 
world,  or  the  free  child  and  servant  of  God.  ...  In 
a  licentious,  intemperate  city,  one  spirit,  at  least, 
was  preparing,  in  silence  and  loneliness,  to  toil,  not 
wholly  in  vain,  for  truth  and  holiness." 


3oS  Character-Sketches. 

Were  it  not  for  his  studied  avoidance  of  the 
usual  theological  technics,  and  the  peculiarity  of 
his  modes  of  thought,  the  descriptions  of  spiritual 
life  which  are  scattered  through  Channing's  writ- 
ings befit  the  pages  of  Jeremy  Taylor  or  of  Will- 
iam Law ;  the  latter  was  indeed  his  favorite  practi- 
cal writer,  as  he  had  been  Wesley's  during  his  early 
life.  Supreme  love  of  God  was  to  him  the  central 
element  of  religion ;  he  dweltf  upon  it  with  the 
fervor  and  absolute  emphasis  of  Fenelon ;  and 
verged  upon,  if  he  did  not  actually  adopt,  the  doc- 
trine of  Disinterestedness,  as  taught  by  Hopkins. 
whose  ministry  he  occasionally  attended  in  Newport. 
The  cold  and  lifeless  didactics,  usual  to  Socinian- 
ism,  never  entered  into  his  ministrations ;  if  he  did 
not  distinguish  morality  from  religion,  it  was  not 
because  he  reduced  the  latter  to  the  former,  but 
because  he  exalted  the  former  to  the  latter — basing 
morals  on  piety.  There  is,  indeed,  throughout  his 
writings  that  meek  but  fervid  spirituality  which 
has  always  been  the  common  trait  of  sanctified 
minds ;  whether  of  Fenelon  among  Romanists, 
Edwards  among  Calvlnists,  or  Fletcher  of  Madeley 
among  Arminians — a  mark  of  essential  identity  in 
spirit,  notwithstanding  their  variance  in  matters  of 
opinion  and  form. 

It  was  this  evangelical  temper,  together  with  his 
abstinence  from  polemical  strife,  that  produced,  in 
the  latter  part  of  his  life,  the  report  that  he  had 


Channing — Heresy  and  Reform.       309 

essentially  modified,  if  not  abandoned,  his  earlier 
opinions.  His  biographer  takes  special  care  to 
guard  his  reputation  against  this  suspicion ;  we  are 
convinced  that  he  died,  as  he  had  lived,  a  high 
Arian ;  but  believe,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  per- 
ceived, in  his  maturer  years,  the  indefiniteness  of 
most  of  his  theological  opinions,  and  lost,  propor- 
tionately, his  tenacity  for  them.  In  these  later 
years  he  never  obtftided  them.  There  was  a  rich 
ripening  of  his  religious  character  as  he  approached 
the  end  of  his  life  ;  but  on  many  of  the  topics  of 
former  and  ardent  controversy  he  spoke  with  cau- 
tious misgivings ;  he  had  become  convinced  of 
their  difficulty,  and  waived  them  ;  had  become  anx- 
ious to  settle  down  into  spiritual  repose,  perform- 
ing the  evident  duties  and  cherishing  the  consol- 
ing affections  and  hopes  of  the  Gospel.  We 
mention  this  fact  not  so  much  as  a  detraction  from 
his  opinions,  as  a  beautiful  aspect  of  his  later  his- 
tory ;  one  not  uncommon  to  good  men  in  the  ripe- 
ness of  their  years  and  piety,  whatever  may  have 
been  the  earlier  severities  of  their  prejudices.  In 
1841,  about  a  year  before  his  death,  he  wrote:  "I 
am  more  detached  from  a  denomination,  and  strive 
to  feel  more  my  connection  with  the  universal 
Church,  with  all  good  and  holy  men.  I  am  little 
of  a  Unitarian,  have  little  sympathy  with  the  sys- 
tem of  Priestley  and  Belsham,  and  stand  aloof 
from  all  but  those  who  strive  and  pray  for  clearer 


3IC  Character-Sketches. 

light,  who  look  for  a  purer  and  more  effectual  man- 
ifestation of  Christian  truth." 

Of  Unitarianism,  as  a  system  or  movement,  he 
unquestionably  did  not  feel  satisfied  in  his  later 
years.  In  1837  he  wrote:  "I  feel  that  among  lib- 
eral Christians  the  preaching  has  been  too  vague, 
has  wanted  unity,  has  scattered  attention  too  much." 
In  1839  ^^^  ^^^*^s  expresses  himself:  **  I  would  that 
I  could  look  to  Unitarianism  with  more  hope.  But 
this  system  was,  at  its  recent  revival,  a  protest  of 
the  understanding  against  absurd  dogmas,  rather 
than  the  work  of  deep  religious  principle;  it  was 
early  paralyzed  by  the  mixture  of  a  material  phi- 
losophy, and  fell  too  much  into  the  hands  of  schol- 
ars and  political  reformers ;  the  consequence  is,  a 
want  of  vitality  and  force,  which  gives  us  but  little 
hope  of  its  accomplishing  much  under  its  present 
auspices,  or  in  its  present  form." 

Channing  was  remarkable,  as  a  theologian,  for 
the  amenity  of  his  spirit.  There  was  but  one  class 
of  opinions  which  he  ever  assailed  with  much 
severity.  His  hostility  to  Calvinism  was  absolute; 
he  turned  away  with  instinctive  horror  from  its 
doctrines.  He  declared  that  he  could  not  hear 
them  "  without  shuddering,"  and  they  appeared  to 
him  "more  dishonorable  to  the  universal  Father 
than  any  error  born  in  the  darkness  of  Popery." 

Channing's  peculiarities — his  excellences  and  his 
faults  as  a  theologian — are  mostly  referable  to  two 


Channing — Heresy  and  Reform.       311 

causes,  namely,  his  extreme  opinion  of  the  individ- 
ual right  of  free  thought,  and  that  general  and 
moral  sort  of  logic,  if  we  may  so  call  it,  which  was 
the  characteristic  habit  of  his  mind. 

Liberty  of  thought,  especially  in  matters  of  re- 
ligion, was  to  him  the  most  sacred  right  of  human- 
ity ;  he  seldom  refers  to  it  in  his  writings  without 
catching  from  the  subject  a  higher  inspiration  and 
a  nobler  style.  It  was  the  passion  of  the  man, 
born  in  him,  and  glowing  with  unabated  ardor, 
through  all  his  struggles  and  misgivings  of  opinion, 
through  the  retrospections  of  his  advanced  years — 
so  often  chillingly  corrective  of  the  sentiments  of 
men  of  genius — and  through  the  last  labors  of  his 
life.  It  was  the  chief  motive  which  induced  him, 
as  we  have  seen,  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  Uni- 
tarian controversy ;  it  was  the  strongest  reason  of 
his  invincible  abhorrence  of  slavery ;  it  led  him 
several  times  to  defend  publicly  the  press,  when  he 
admitted  that  its  liberty  was  perniciously  used ;  it 
caused  him  to  place  his  name  the  first  on  a  petition 
for  the  liberation  of  Kneeland,  when  imprisoned 
for 'public  blasphemies.  From  the  time,  indeed, 
that  he  entered  the  pulpit,  a  youth  of  twenty-three 
years,  till  he  descended  into  the  grave,  he  uttered 
an  uncompromising  remonstrance  against  all  re- 
strictions on  the  liberty  of  the  human  soul.  Honor 
to  his  memory  for  it,  notwithstanding  his  heresies 
in  this,  as  in  other  respects !     Differing  from  him. 


312  Character-Sketches.  ( 

as  we  do,  in  theology,  we  cannot  but  admit  his 
admirable  and  almost  singular  peculiarity  in  this 
respect.  Theologians  and  sectarians  have  been  en- 
thusiastic enough  for  liberty  of  conscience  when 
deprived  of  it,  but  have  generally  deemed  it  more 
orthodox  to  arrogate  it  to  themselves  than  to  ex- 
tend it  to  their  competitors.  Channing  demanded 
it  for  all  men,  and  gave  it  as  Hberally  as  he 
claimed  it. 

He  did  not  err  in  asserting  this  right,  but  in  de- 
fining it.  It  is  undoubtedly  a  deHcate  question 
how  far  a  man  should  doubt  received  opinions  till 
he  can  prove  their  truth.  There  are  two  consider- 
ations, however,  which  show  that  a  habit  of  faith 
in  received  opinions  is  more  legitimate  than  a  habit 
of  doubt.  One  is,  the  unquestionable  inability  of 
the  mass  of  mankind,  from  the  want  of  time  or  of 
intelligence,  to  ascertain  the  evidence  of  most  opin- 
ions. The  other  is  the  fact  that,  as  an  adaptation  to 
this  condition,  we  are  placed  in  circumstances  dur- 
ing childhood  and  youth  which  inevitably  educate 
us  to  such  a  reliance  on  received  doctrines.  The 
Philosophers  may  be  Pyrrhonists — the  people  can- 
not be ;  it  would  be  contrary  to  nature  for  them  to 
be  skeptical.  The  millions  are  compelled  by  a 
necessity  as  absolute  as  fate  to  adopt  most  of  their 
opinions  on  the  higher  questions  of  truth  from  tra- 
dition or  from  testimony.  We  are  not  sure,  indeed, 
that  there  is  not,  above  the  necessity  and  the  train- 


Channing— Heresy  and  Reform.       313 

ing  referred  to,  a  natural  law  or  instinct  for  the  same 
end.  Let  us  not,  then,  speak  too  harshly  of  the 
"prejudices  of  education,"  the  servility  of  the  pop- 
ular mind  ;  much  of  the  orderly  beauty  of  social 
life,  of  the  reverence  and  loyalty  which  protect  the 
sacredness  of  public  institutions,  and  of  the  re- 
straining influence  of  religious  sentiments  on  indi- 
vidual conduct,  is  due  to  that  generous  confidence 
in  the  testimony  of  the  past  and  in  the  testimony 
of  our  fellows  which  it  is  the  too-prevalent  custom 
of  these  times  to  decry.  Let  us  have  liberty ;  in 
God's  name  let  the  millions  have  it ;  but  they  are 
the  enemies  of  men,  as  of  God,  who  teach  that  the 
moderation  which  is  essential  to  true  wisdom,  and 
the  faith  that  God  has  wrought  into  our  nature,  are 
to  be  defiantly  put  away  in  the  struggle  for  human 
emancipation. 

Channing  would  never  so  teach;  but  there  was 
an  habitual  tendency  in  him  to  such  an  extreme, 
and  it  is  manifest  throughout  his  writings.  In  his 
youth  he  would  not  read  theological  writers  till  he 
had  made  up  his  own  opinions,  lest  he  might  be 
wrongly  prepossessed — a  rule  which,  however  plau- 
sible, requires  much  qualification  ;  for  it  is  certainly 
no  small  stretch  of  presumption  in  a  young  man  to 
suppose  his  immature  powers,  biased,  too,  as  they 
inevitably  must  be,  by  the  prejudices  of  early  edu- 
cation, can  ascertain  religious  truth,  whether  from 
revelation  or  reason,  better  than  the  mature  facul- 


314  Character-Sketches. 

ties  of  the  Butlers,  Watsons,  or  Chalmerses,  who 
stand  ready  to  help  him.  Channing  condemned 
the  opinions  of  Parker,  of  Boston ;  and  yet  ap- 
plauded the  freedom  with  which  they  were  uttered 
—  as  if  there  were  no  prudential  restrictions  to  be 
self-imposed  on  the  popular  publication  of  one's 
opinions  when  they  are  confessedly  of  a  recondite 
character,  are  but  in  the  process  of  their  discovery, 
and,  if  they  should  happen  to  be  false,  must  be  dis- 
astrous to  the  best  sentiments  of  the  people.  Is  it 
really  the  wisdom  of  a  high  philosophy  to  proclaim, 
as  from  the  house-tops,  opinions  which  would 
break  down  the  most  venerated  traditions  and  in- 
stitutions of  society,  and  to  do  so  while,  from  their 
immaturity,  such  new  opinions  are  yet  subject  to 
constant  revision  and  modification  by  their  authors  ? 
Is,  indeed,  that  peremptory  rashness,  falsely  called 
courage,  with  which  new  doctrines  are  announced 
in  these  days,  preferable  to  the  modesty  which  gave 
to  the  Socratic  method  the  interrogative  form,  and 
the  want  of  which,  in  the  Sophists,  called  forth  the 
remonstrance  of  Plato  and  his  great  master  ? 

This  love  of  individual  freedom  induced  Chan- 
ning to  eschew  almost  entirely  the  combinations 
of  good  men,  for  good  purposes,  by  which  so  much 
has  been  achieved  in  these  latter  days.  He  would 
preach  eloquently  on  temperance  ;  and,  with  his 
distinguished  classmate,  Judge  Story,  adopted  total 
abstinence  while  yet  in  college  ;  but  he  would  not 


Chakmx*      Heresy  and  Reform.       315 

sign  the  pledge.  He  preached  against  War,  and 
the  Peace  Society  published  his  sermon  ;  but  he 
refused  to  join  their  organization.  He  wrote 
against  slavery,  and  the  Antislavery  Society  issued 
his  books  ;  but  he  never  united  with  them.  Indi- 
vidualism was  his  hobby ;  but  suppose  all  the 
strong  men  who  conduct  our  philanthropic  soci- 
eties should  ride  the  same  hobby,  what  would  be- 
come of  our  best  schemes  of  reform  ? 

Channing,  to  say  the  least,  was  vague  on  this 
subject,  as  he  was  on  most  others.  With  his  fine 
genius,  and  finer  morale,  the  extreme  freedom  of 
opinion  which  he  asserted  was  somewhat  guarded 
against  its  natural  results ;  but  in  many  of  his 
compeers  it  proved  disastrous.  It  led  Parker  to 
utter  Rationalism  ;  Emerson  to  ideal  Pantheism  ; 
Brownson,  through  we  know  not  how  many  the- 
ological somersets,  till  he  came  at  last,  head  down- 
ward, into  the  mire  of  Popery ;  and  J.  Blanco 
White,  Channing's  correspondent  and  ideal  of  a 
self-emancipated  mind,  it  conducted  into  inextri- 
cable mazes  of  doubt  and  despondence. 

We  have  mentioned,  as  a  second  characteristic 
of  Channing,  "  a  general  or  moral  sort  of  logic,'* 
which,  we  think,  was  the  master-power  of  his 
mind,  the  chief  source  at  once  of  the  excellencies 
and  defects  of  his  opinions.  Probable  reasoning, 
as  well  as  mathematical,  proceeds  upon  certain 
original,   or,  as  they  are   more  commonly  called, 


3 1 6  Character-Sketches. 

ultimate  truths,  which  are  incapable  of  proof,  and 
need  no  proof,  because  the  very  constitution  of  the 
mind  compels  their  recognition.  The  axioms  of 
mathematics  are  of  no  more  practical  authority 
than  are  the  original  conditions  of  moral  belief, 
when  the  latter  have  fair  play ;  but  the  differ- 
ence which  exists  between  the  respective  processes 
of  mathematical  and  probable  reasoning  extends 
also  to  the  original  conditions  of  the  two  kinds 
of  proof.  Every  man  admits,  instantly,  that  the 
sum  of  all  the  parts  is  equal  to  the  whole  ;  every 
man  admits,  too,  the  conclusions  of  probable  rea- 
soning at  a  certain  point  of  evidence,  and  would 
stake  his  all  upon  them,  as  fearlessly  as  upon  a  con- 
clusion deduced  from  mathematical  axioms.  But 
the  difference  is,  that  different  men  require  differ- 
ent degrees  of  moral  evidence  to  bring  them  to 
the  same  conclusion  ;  and  this  arises  from  a  differ- 
ence in  the  strength  of  the  original  principles  of 
moral  reasoning  in  different  minds.  Some  men  — 
and  not  unfrequently  men  of  superior  faculties — 
seem  constitutionally  inclined  to  skepticism  ;  oth- 
ers, without  rare  astuteness,  have,  nevertheless,  a 
happy  and  healthful  appreciation  of  moral  evidence 
— a  sound  faith  in  all  things  good  and  true — 
without  fanaticism. 

This  difference,  respecting  probable  reasoning  in 
general,  becomes  still  more  strongly  marked  when 
the    subjects  of  such    reasoning   are   of   a    purely 


Channing— Heresy  and  Reform.       317 

speculative  character.  In  fine,  the  original  grounds 
of  probable  reasoning,  though  as  constitutional  in 
the  mind  as  those  of  mathematical  proof,  are,  un- 
like the  latter,  dependent  for  their  force  and  vivid- 
ness upon  the  moral  idiosyncrasies  of  the  man. 
And  we  mean  something  special  by  this  phrase : 
we  do  not  mean  any  superinduced  moral  state — 
though  this  doubtless  has  great  effect — but  an 
original  aptitude  for  right  moral  conclusions. 
Men  of  devout  minds  have  sometimes  approved 
barbarous  evils,  while  others,  of  no  special  piety 
and  no  better  external  lights,  have  seen  their  true 
character  and  denounced  them.  The  Demon  of 
Socrates  was  his  fine  moral  discernment. 

What  we  mean,  then,  by  Channing's  peculiarity 
in  this  respect  is,  that  he  possessed  this  aptitude 
in  a  degree  which  we  are  disposed  to  pronounce 
anomalous.  Our  supposition  of  what  a  man  would 
have  been  under  other  circumstances  must,  of 
course,  be  quite  conjectural ;  but  we  cannot  place 
Channing  down  on  the  moral  level  of  any  age  in 
which  we  may  suppose  him  to  have  lived.  If  he 
had  lived  in  a  period  of  barbarous  heathenism,  his 
warm  sensibility  could  not  have  led  him  into  its 
fanaticism,  for  the  philosophic  element  was  too 
strong  in  him  for  that.  If  he  had  lived  in  an  age 
of  brilliant  pagan  civilization,  like  that  of  Athens,  he 
could  not  have  been  a  Pyrrhonist,  for  his  fine  per- 
ceptions would  not  have  admitted  it.    It  is  a  strong 


3i8  Character-Sketches. 

statement,  but  we  should  not  hesitate  to  make  it 
to  one  who  had  studied  him,  either  personally  or 
in  his  writings,  that,  if  he  had  lived  under  the  lat- 
ter circumstances,  he  would,  most  probably,  have 
been  the  friend  of  Socrates  and  Plato,  and  have 
combined  the  ethical  wisdom  of  the  one  with  the 
pure  idealism  of  the  other.  Such  a  man  as 
Channing  must  have  stood  majestically  in  advance 
of  his  age,  whenever  and  wherever  he  lived.  He 
lived,  according  to  the  sense  of  the  present  gener- 
ation at  least,  in  the  best  age  of  the  world,  and  yet 
was  far  in  front  of  it ;  if  it  reaches  his  elevated  po- 
sition in  two  centuries  the  signs  of  the  times  are 
certainly  quite  illusive. 

This  fine  faculty  for  moral  discrimination  seemed 
almost  an  instinct  in  Channing ;  he  appeared  to 
feel  the  right  or  wrong  of  a  subject  at  once.  On 
all  great  moral  and  social  questions — the  inherent 
rights  of  man,  freedom  of  the  press,  war,  popular 
ameliorations,  education,  penal  jurisprudence,  the 
ethical  and  spiritual  principles  of  religion,  and, 
above  all,  the  moral  traits  of  personal  character — 
he  had  an  intuitive  insight.  Error,  however  sanc- 
tioned by  great  names  or  great  age,  shrank  instan- 
taneously beneath  his  scrutiny.  Seldom,  if  ever, 
did  a  man  rise  more  sublimely  above  the  influence 
of  tradition,  or  that  factitious  deference  for  what 
is  fashionable,  customary,  though  wrong,  which 
so  much  sways  the  world.     Though  a  meek,  calm 


Channing— Heresy  and  Reform.       319 

man,  fit  for  the  goodly  company  of  Izaak  Walton's 
mild-tempered  worthies,  yet  there  was  in  his  moral 
convictions  a  keenness  and  sternness  truly  terrible  to 
evil  and  to  evil-doers.  The  long-drawn  reasonings 
with  which  ordinary  minds  would  arraign  prevail- 
ing wrongs  were  beneath  him  ;  he  saw  such  wrongs 
so  distinctly,  and  pointed  at  them  so  directly,  that 
the  hearer,  however  previously  beguiled  by  them, 
could  not  but  see  them  standing  out,  staring  and 
indefensible.  His  very  tones,  though  habitually 
gentle,  had  a  sort  of  moral  thrill  in  them  when  at- 
tacking error,  that  gave  a  new  sense  and  an  over- 
whelming power  to  common-place  sentences.  His 
biographer  relates  a  fact  in  point,  but  which  can- 
not be  fully  comprehended  by  any  reader  who 
never  heard  Channing.  A  discussion  arose,  in  con- 
versation, on  the  barbarous  modes  of  punishment 
in  the  Navy,  Army,  and  Prisons.  One  of  the 
company  was  going  through  the  usual  arguments 
in  favor  of  the  lash,  when  Channing  dashed  the 
whole,  and  silenced  all  further  defence  by  a  single 
exclamation.  "What,"  said  he,  '''strike  a  man!" 
To  such  an  exclamation  his  peculiar  manner  gave  a 
volume  of  meaning  ;  the  barbarity  of  the  custom, 
the  petty  and  vulgar  character  of  the  reasoning  for 
it,  stood  out  in  debasing  contrast  with  the  moral 
dignity  of  man. 

Now  it  was  in  precisely  this  noble  faculty  for  the 
discernment  of  general  ethical  truth  that  we  think 


320  Character-Sketches. 

his  theological  errors  originated.  He  was  so  ad- 
dicted to  moral  reasoning,  to  practical  views  of 
every  thing,  that  he  was  measurably  disqualified 
for  the  more  abstract  or  speculative  questions  of 
theology ;  and,  therefore,  whenever  he  approached 
them  he  became  perplexed,  doubtful,  indefinite. 
Minds  strongly  given  to  moral  reasoning  are  said 
to  be  unapt  in  mathematics,  and  vice  versa;  the 
higher  truths  of  revelation,  not  within  the  scope 
of  direct  moral  reasoning — as  the  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity,  for  instance — are  dependent  almost  entire- 
ly on  exegetical  proof;  and  in  this  respect  are 
nearly  as  much  out  of  the  habitual  course  of  a 
mind  like  Channing's  as  mathematical  questions 
themselves.  Channing  never  could  be  a  profound 
mathematician  ;  and  he  never  was  a  good  exeget^ 
ical  critic.  He  applied  his  general  logic  directly  to 
these  high  revealed  truths,  on  which  it  was  scarcely 
possible  for  it  to  find  a  foothold  ;  whereas  he  should 
have  applied  it  to  the  evidence  of  the  Revelation  it- 
self, and,  when  satisfied  there,  he  should  have  relied 
for  the  truths  which  the  Revelation  announced,  on 
the  just  principles  of  interpretation,  chiefly,  if  not 
exclusively.  The  reader  of  his  sermons  cannot  fail 
to  observe  how  seldom  he  discusses  the  Scripture 
argument  on  any  doubtful  subject  ;  his  noted  New 
York  Sermon  is  strictly  a  "moral  argument"  on 
the  Trinity,  etc.,  as  exclusively  such  as  his  well- 
known     "  Moral    Argument     against    Calvinism." 


Channing— Heresy  and  Reform.      321 

Here  was  the  capital  mistake  of  his  theological 
inquiries — the  wrong  application  of  reason  to  mat- 
ters of  Revelation  ;  if  we  can  prove  the  Scriptures 
to  be  the  word  of  God,  what  folly  for  us  to  demand 
that  the  mystery  of  their  revelations  respecting  the 
Divine  essence,  or  other  incomprehensible  facts, 
shall  give  way  before  our  logic  ! 

We  have  dwelt  thus  largely  on  Channing's  char- 
acter as  a  theologian  for  two  reasons  :  first,  because 
we  are  honestly  solicitous  to  allay  any  undue  preju- 
dice which  may  exist  against  him  in  other  religious 
communions  than  his  own  ;  and,  secondly,  because, 
religion  being  the  study  and  business  of  his  life,  the 
contemplation  of  him  in  this  character  ought  to 
afford  us  the  best  means  of  estimating  him. 

As    a    preacher,    Channing    was    pre-eminent, 

though  he  had  very  few  really  oratorical  qualities. 

His  presence  in  the  pulpit  was  not  commanding ; 

he    was   small   in    stature,   exceedingly   emaciated. 

and  enveloped  in  a  superabundance  of  clothing  ;  his 

cheeks  were  sunken ;  his  eye  hollow,  and  his  voice 

feeble,  though   remarkably   flexible.      The  deeply 

indented   lines   of  his    face,    especially   about    the 

mouth,   gave    him    a    peculiar    expression,    which 

could  not  fail  to  enlist  the  sympathy  of  the  hearer  ; 

you    could    read    in    them    the  story   of  his  long 

physical  prostration,  and  the  agony  of  those  early 

intellectual    struggles    which    had    occasioned    it. 

This  trace  of  the  struggle  of  the  past  was,  how- 
21 


322  Character-Sketches. 

ever,  so  blended  with  an  expression  of  present 
and  profound  repose  as  to  be,  to  our  eye  at  least, 
the  most  impressive  and  affecting  indication  of 
his  countenance.  His  forehead,  always  marked  by 
a  single  fallen  lock,  was  not  large,  but  appeared 
so  by  contrast  with  the  diminished  proportions  of 
his  thin  and  pallid  face.  He  had  few  gestures,  and 
adhered  closely  to  his  manuscript,  except  in  the 
rural  chapel,  near  his  summer  residence  on  Rhode 
Island,  where  he  usually  extemporized,  and,  it  is 
said,  with  much  facility.  We  have  heard  him 
speak  extemporaneously  in  a  popular  meeting 
with  the  same  rich  thought  and  diction  that  char- 
acterized his  pulpit  prelections. 

But  whatever  were  his  personal  disadvantages  in 
the  pulpit,  they  were  not  only  countervailed  by, 
but  seemed  to  assist,  the  impression  of  his  dis- 
course. His  feeble  utterance — a  little  prolonged, 
but  not  drawling — became  richly  varied  in  its  mod- 
ulation, and  seemed  congenial  with  the  refined 
excellence  of  his  thoughts.  In  the  reading  of  the 
hymns  and  the  Scripture  lessons  it  at  once  arrested 
attention  by  its  exact  and  eloquent  emphasis.  As 
he  advanced  in  his  discourse,  his  deep  gray  eye 
beamed  with  a  calm  radiance,  and,  before  he  sunk 
exhausted  on  his  seat,  a  blended  intellectual  and 
moral  beauty  glowed  over  all  his  features. 

He  was  seldom  passionate,  never  declamatory, 
yet   always    deeply   earnest.      His   utter   sincerity 


Channing— Heresy  and  Reform.       323 

would  not  admit  of  an  attempt  at  mere  rhetorical 
effect.  "  On  no  account,"  he  once  said  to  a  young 
brother  preacher,  **  on  no  account,  in  your  public 
services,  try  to  exhibit,  by  look  or  tone,  any  emo- 
tion which  you  do  not  feel.  If  you  feel  coldly,  ap- 
pear so.  The  sermon  may  be  lost,  but  your  own 
truthfulness  will  be  preserved."  This  sincerity  was 
manifest  not  only  in  the  deHvery,  but  also  in  the 
preparation,  of  his  sermons;  beauty,  both  of  thought 
and  style,  was  natural  to  him  ;  he  could  not  write 
without  it ;  but  he  aimed  at  effect  only  by  the 
moral  force  of  his  thoughts — truth,  in  its  own  es- 
sential beauty  and  inherent  power,  was  his  whole 
dependence  in  the  pulpit.  Had  he  used  a  brilliant 
sentence,  or  a  beautiful  figure,  evidently  because 
of  its  rhetorical  finish,  it  would  have  startled  his 
audience  as  an  inadmissible  incongruity — a  sort  of 
degradation  from  the  lofty  dignity  of  his  earnest 
spirit.  Figures  are  abundant  in  his  writings,  but 
they  come  spontaneously  and  are  used  only  so  far 
as  they  are  relevant  for  the  illustration  of  his  sub- 
ject :  they  appear  mostly  as  allusions ;  and  he  ha- 
bitually declines  to  elaborate  or  detail  them  merely 
to  bring  out  their  rhetorical  beauty.  We  doubt 
whether  half  a  dozen  exceptions  to  this  remark  can 
be  found  in  all  his  writings.  He  possessed  deep 
sensibility,  and  you  felt  often  under  his  discourses 
that  you  were  wholly  in  his  power ;  that  it  was  only 
with  him  to  will  to  overwhelm  you,  and  he  could 


324  CHARACTER-SKEXaiES. 

do  it ;  but  he  appeared  to  hold  his  feelings  under 
determined  yet  difficult  restraint ;  his  ever-varying 
voice  would  often  tremble  with  emotion,  and  sud- 
denly seize  another  tone.  We  doubt  whether  he 
ever  wept  in  the  pulpit ;  but  his  hearers  have  often 
found  it  impossible  to  imitate  his  self-restraint,  and 
have  wept  under  his  most  tranquil  accents.  Dr. 
Dewey  says :  ''  I  shall  never  forget  the  effect  upon 
me  of  the  first  sermon  I  ever  heard  from  him. 
Shall  I  confess,  too,  that,  holding  then  a  faith  some- 
what different  from  his,  I  listened  to  him  with  a 
certain  degree  of  distrust  and  prejudice  ?  These 
barriers,  however,  soon  gave  way;  and  such  was 
the  effect  of  the  simple  and  heart-touching  truths 
and  tones  which  fell  from  his  lips,  that  it  would 
have  been  a  relief  to  me  to  have  bowed  my  head, 
and  to  have  wept  without  restraint  through  the 
whole  service.  And  yet  I  did  not  weep ;  for  there 
was  something  in  that  impression  too  solemn  and 
deep  for  tears." 

Channing  was,  throughout  his  long  ministry,  the 
most  popular  preacher  in  Boston.  He  began  in 
youth  with  crowded  congregations,  and  his  latest 
sermons,  when  it  was  publicly  known  that  he  was 
to  preach,  commanded  the  same  interest.  Two 
qualities  particularly  marked  his  discourses,  and 
were,  we  think,  the  constituents  of  his  pulpit  power. 
The  first  was  that  elevated  tone  of  not  only  his 
moral    emotions,    but    of    his    moral    conceptions, 


Channing— Heresy  and  Reform.       325 

whereto  we  have  alluded.  You  heard  from  him 
discussions  of  old  familiar  truths ;  but  they  became 
new  in  his  hands,  not  so  much  by  far-fetched  or 
novel  opinions  upon  them,  as  by  a  new  life  which 
he  infused  into  admitted  opinions.  Your  old 
thoughts  rise  up  within  you  in  radiant  resurrec- 
tion. You  wonder  that  you  never  saw  them  in 
such  a  strong  and  self-evident  light  before.  You 
are  first  surprised  at  the  transcendent  yet  simple 
and  benign  insight — the  intuition  of  the  preacher ; 
soon  this  merely  personal  sentiment  is  gone,  and 
you  are  absorbed  exclusively  in  the  deepening  in- 
terest of  the  subject ;  you  assume  an  attitude  of 
solicitous  attention ;  you  hold  your  breath  till  he 
reaches  his  periods ;  if  he  pauses  to  think  or  renew 
his  strength,  at  the  chief  divisions  of  his  discourse, 
you  observe  a  general  movement  in  the  assembly,  a 
momentary  relaxation  of  the  mental  tension.  But 
again  the  spell  prevails :  you  wonder  that  he  does 
not  pour  forth  his  evident  power  overwhelmingly ; 
you  wonder  that  yourself  and  all  men  have  felt  the 
truth  so  little  heretofore ;  you  resolve  to  go  forth 
from  your  seat  a  better  man  ;  you  weep,  and  if  you 
look  about  you,  you  perceive  the  tear  trembling  in 
the  eye  of  the  gray-headed  hearer  near  you ;  the 
little  child  is  wrapped  in  interest ;  the  thoughtless 
man-  of  the  world  rouses  himself  from  his  listless 
posture,  and  is  awe-struck.  At  last  the  emaciated 
speaker  dechnes,  exhausted,  into  his  seat;  and,  as^ 


3-^  Character-Sketches. 

you  go  from  the  temple,  you  feel  that  it  has  been 
no  ordinary  day  in  your  history ;  you  feel  that  an 
effort  ought  to  be  made  to  have  that  sermon  re- 
peated. You  long  to  speak  to  some  one  about  the 
remarkable  thoughts  you  have  heard  ;  but  if  you 
attempt  to  do  so  to  one  who  has  not  heard  the 
sermon  he  will  probably  discover  nothing  but  what 
he  knew  before — knew,  but  never  felt,  as  you  now 
feel.  The  other  marked  trait  of  his  preaching  was 
the  fact  that  his  whole  consciousness  seemed  to  be 
absorbed,  if  we  may  so  express  it,  into  his  sub- 
ject. Preachers  oftener,  we  think,  than  any  other 
class  of  public  speakers,  deliver  their  discourses  with 
accuracy,  and  even  with  labored  emphasis,  when  it 
is  manifest  that  their  own  attention  is  away  from 
the  subject,  busied  either  with  some  absent  attrac- 
tion, or  in  an  attempt  to  gauge  the  interest  of  the 
audience.  We  know  not  how,  but  most  assuredly 
this  fact,  by  some  subtle  process,  is  perceived  by 
the  hearer ;  and  the  dullest  hearer  is  more  or  less 
conscious  of  it.  Such  a  discourse  cannot  have 
effect ;  it  may  instruct,  for  it  may  have  been  well 
prepared ;  but  its  power  is  gone — it  lacks  direct- 
ness and  edge.  The  prime  secret  of  eloquence 
consists,  we  think,  in  this  ability  to  identify  one's 
soul  with  his  subject ;  it  gives  the  right  tone  and 
emphasis,  even  to  a  speaker  unacquainted  with  the 
art  of  elocution  ;  it  often  produces  the  happiest 
gesticulation,  even  in  men  of  naturally  ungraceful 


CiiANNiNG  -Heresy  and  Reform.       32; 

action.  If  this  self-committal  is  secured,  thought, 
utterance,  and  manner  come  spontaneously,  and 
generally  come  spontaneously  right.  Channing  was 
invariably,  it  would  appear,  an  example  of  this 
excellence ;  he  seemed  to  gaze  intently  at,  into, 
through,  his  subject.  It  possessed  his  whole  atten- 
tion ;  and  this  manifest  fact  affected  his  hearers  as 
by  a  mesmeric  influence ;  they  became  absorbed  in 
it  with  him.  It  is  said  that,  when  his  discourse 
on  the  immortality  of  the  soul  was  first  preached, 
**  the  whole  audience  were  heard  to  take  breath"  at 
the  close  of  certain  passages;  and  when,  years  later, 
the  same  sermon  was  preached  in  New  York,  a 
similar  effect  was  produced. 

His  range  of  topics  was  exceedingly  varied.  He 
considered  the  pulpit  the  appropriate  place  for  the 
discussion  of  all  moral  subjects  that  affect  the 
social  or  political  interests  of  man,  as  well  as  those 
that  relate  more  directly  to  his  spiritual  hopes. 
The  Gospel,  he  believed,  had  to  do  with  every 
great  interest  of  the  race ;  and  few  important  pub- 
lic events  or  questions  escaped  his  notice  in  the 
pulpit.  Was  the  nation  agitated  by  a  presidential 
canvass?  he  preached  on  the  evils  of  party  spirit. 
Was  there  danger  of  war?  he  preached  on  its  moral 
and  social  horrors  ;  yet  asserted  the  duty  of  the 
citizen  to  his  country.  Had  a  mob  interrupted 
public  order?  he  discussed  the  importance  of  sub- 
ordination to  law  and  the  means  of  popular  virtue. 


328  Character-Sketches. 

Education,  Pauperism,  Temperance,  Slavery,  and 
all  similar  questions,  were  his  frequent  themes, 
while  the  importance  of  personal  morals  and  piety 
was  never  forgotten. 

It  would  be  an  inadmissible  omission  to  pass  over 
without  remark  his  character  as  a  philanthropist. 
We  refer,  not  merely  to  those  habitual  services  of 
benevolence  which  are  inseparable  from  the  pas- 
toral office — in  these  he  was  unusually  faithful,  as 
we  shall  see;  but  if  he  had  not  been  a  Christian 
pastor,  nor  known  in  literature,  he  would  still  have 
had  a  public  reputation  as  a  philanthropist.  The 
moral  discrimination,  to  which  we  have  alluded  as 
his  chief  distinction  in  theology,  had  also  much  to 
do  with  his  philanthropy.  To  use  his  own  words, 
he  **saWy  he  fe/t,  the  great  evils  of  ouf  present  so- 
cial state;"  and  from  his  youth  to  the  last  years 
of  his  life  he  was  struggling  to  solve  the  great  prob- 
lems of  man's  social  renovation,  and  exerting  him- 
self, meanwhile,  in  most  of  the  practical  schemes 
of  philanthropy  that  were  within  his  reach.  As 
early  as  his  fifteenth  year,  the  reading  of  the  writ- 
ings of  Ferguson  and  Hutcheson,  while  at  college, 
produced  a  profound  impression  upon  his  mind. 
*'In  his  Junior  year  he  had  already  become  a  moral 
and  social  reformer." 

A  restless  anxiety  to  do  good,  to  lay  hold  on 
and  tear  up  the  very  roots  of  great  social  evils,  took 
possession   of  his   soul   at   this   time ;    and    subse- 


Channing— Heresy  and  Reform.       329 

quently,  during  "  those  days  and  nights  of  loneli- 
ness and  frequent  gloom  "  spent  at  Richmond, 
visions  of  vast  change — of  "  a  perfect  society  " — 
cheered  his  melancholy  reveries.  He  had  actually 
conceived  the  main  ideas  of  modern  Communism, 
and,  '*  it  is  probable,  thought  of  joining  himself, 
as  minister,  to  a  settlement  of  Scotch  emigrants 
whose  fundamental  principle  was  common  prop- 
erty." The  prudence  of  later  life  corrected  his  san- 
guine confidence  in  such  impracticable  schemes, 
as  it  corrected  the  fanciful  republican  projects  of 
Southey  and  Coleridge.  Yet  it  does  not  appear 
that  he  ever  totally  abandoned  the  hope  of  some 
similar  revolution  of  social  life. 

His  more  extensive  intercourse  with  men,  as  a 
Christian  pastor,  gave  a  more  practical  direction  to 
his  philanthropic  sympathies.  His  journals  con- 
tain long  lists  of  plans  "  for  public  works,  benevo- 
lent operations,  special  reforms."  These  plans  in- 
clude: Associations  among  Mechanics;  a  Work  (to 
be  written)  on  Ardent  Spirits;  Fire  Clubs;  Poor 
Houses;  Female  Employment  Societies;  Provis- 
ions of  Wood  on  a  Large  Scale ;  Bake-houses 
for  the  Poor;  Associations  for  the  Relief  of  the 
Sick,  the  Old,  and  Debtors ;  Societies  for  the  Ad- 
vice of  Emigrants,  for  the  Reformation  of  Prosti- 
tutes, the  Improvement  of  Africans,  etc.  His  lib- 
erality was  not  absorbed  in  merely  devising  plans 
of  good  ;  but  his  personal  charities  were  great.    An 


3  30  C 1 1 AR  ACTER-SKETCH  ES. 

elder  brother  suggested  that  he  '*  should  have  a 
guardian  ;  he  spends  every  dollar  as  soon  as  he  gets 
it."  "  With  a  good  salary  he  was  yet  always  poor." 
One  of  his  sister's  writes :  "  He  must  have  had 
$i,ooo  to  lay  out,  per  annum,  of  which  he  scarcely 
spent  any  thing  on  himself,  except  in  case  of  sick- 
ness, or  when  he  had  to  take  a  journey."  She 
estimates  that  he  gave  away  nearly  $800  a  year. 
He  lived  with  almost  ascetic  severity,  and  dressed 
so  poorly  that  the  dignity  of  his  manners  alone 
saved  him  from  an  appearance  of  meanness. 

He  was  one  of  the  first  co-laborers  of  the  vener- 
able Noah  Worcester  in  the  Peace  movement  ;  he 
sympathized  and  counseled  with  him  also  respect- 
ing the  abolition  of  capital  punishment.  He  did 
more  than  any  other  man  toward  the  establishment 
of  the  Boston  '*  ministry  at  large,"  the  noble  field 
of  the  noble  Tuckerman.  He  took  an  active  inter- 
est in  the  improvement  of  Prison  Discipline.  He 
exerted  his  best  eloquence  in  the  cause  of  temper- 
ance. He  helped  to  originate  the  Massachusetts 
Bible  Society;  delivered  its  first  anniversary  ad- 
dress ;  and  for  eight  years  was  chairman  of  its 
Executive  Committee.  He  was  deeply  interested 
in  foreign  missions,  and  at  one  time  was  disposed 
to  sunder  all  his  local  ties  and  throw  himself  into 
the  foreign  field  ;  but  his  health  interfered.  He  was 
the  first  to  second  the  efforts  of  the  eloquent  Fa- 
ther Taylor   in    the   Bethel  Cause.     Popular  edu- 


CuANNiNG— Heresy  and  Reform.       331 

cation  he  esteemed  the  glory  and  security  of  the 
State.  When  Horace  Mann  turned  from  his  brill- 
iant political  prospects  to  take  charge  of  the  com- 
mon schools  of  Massachusetts,  amid  the  smiles 
and  scoffs  of  demagogues,  Channing  wrote  him  a 
congratulatory  letter,  and  began  immediately  to 
co-operate  with  him  in  pubHc  and  private.  His 
memoirs  and  writings  abound  with  invaluable  opin- 
ions on  these  great  themes — opinions  maturer  than 
can  be  found,  perhaps,  in  any  other  writer.  His 
discourses  on  self-culture  and  the  education  of  the 
laboring  classes  have  done  great  good,  especially  in 
England  ;  they  are  considered  the  best  exponents 
of  his  principles  and  aims. 

The  latest  and  maturest  strength  of  Channing 
was  devoted  to  the  discussion  of  American  slavery. 
No  writer  has  treated  the  subject  with  more  candor 
or  more  impressive  eloquence.  The  amenity,  trans- 
parent purity  of  style,  argumentative  conclusive- 
ness, and  lofty  moral  tone  of  his  writings  on  this 
subject,  gave  to  them  a  force  which  the  impartial 
reader  felt  to  be  irresistible  ;  he  closes  the  book 
almost  believing  that  if  it  were  scattered  broadcast 
over  the  land  it  must  work  a  national  revolution 
on  the  subject,  and  seal  forever  the  doom  of  slavery. 
Channing  had  seen  slavery  among  his  own  kindred 
at  Newport ;  he  had  lived  in  its  midst  at  Rich- 
mond ;  he  had  seen  it  in  the  West  Indies,  while  seek- 
ing  health  there.     The  usual   recapitulation  *bout 


332  Character-Sketches. 

whips,  hard  toil,  poor  food,  etc.,  so  elaborately 
made  by  ordinary  lecturers,  were  not  the  views  of 
this  evil  which  most  impressed  him.  He  saw  that 
slavery  prevented  pauperism ;  that  its  mere  phys- 
ical condition,  like  that  of  our  domestic  cattle,  was 
really  better  than  the  physical  condition  of  the 
lowest  class  of  European  laborers  ;  but  a  man  who 
should  have  alleged  this  fact  as  an  apology  for 
slavery — as  a  reason  why  the  humanity  of  millions, 
made  in  the  image  of  God,  should  be  extin- 
guished, or  degraded — would  have  shrunk  abashed 
under  his  indignant  rebuke.  It  was  the  deep 
and  terrible  intellectual  and  moral  ruin,  which 
slavery  entails,  that  covered  the  enormity  with 
darkness  and  horror  to  his  mind.  It  is  no  marvel 
that  such  a  man  should  have  called  out,  in  solemn 
arraignment,  before  the  reflecting  world,  an  institu- 
'tion  like  this.  Those  who  knew  American  slavery 
know  that  its  evils  can  scarcely  be  exaggerated.  It 
was  replete  with  physical,  moral,  social,  political, 
and  all  other  evil.  It  held  three  millions  of  human 
beings  in  a  state  of  chattelship.  It  sold  them,  like 
cattle,  at  the  auctioneer's  stand,  and  drove  them  to 
and  fro  in  the  land  by  a  stupendous  trade.  It  at- 
tempted to  extinguish  their  intellects  by  laws  pro- 
hibiting them  to  learn  to  read.  It  violated  their  ten- 
derest  relations,  separating,  at  its  caprice  and  forever, 
husbands  and  wives,  parents  and  children.  It  vio- 
lated the  protections  of  woman's  virtue,  and  spread 


Channing — Heresy  and  Reform.       333 

licentiousness  over  its  whole  territory.*  It  con- 
verted States,  proverbial  for  **  chivalry,"  into  mere 
breeding  estates  to  supply  the  market.  It  blighted 
the  soil  of  the  former  garden-spots  of  the  land.  It 
corrupted  the  youth  of  the  South  by  indolent  and 
imperious  habits ;  leading  them  to  false  sentiments 
of  honor,  the  habitual  carrying  of  deadly  weapons, 
and  a  contempt  for  the  dignity  of  labor.  It  blast- 
ed the  spirit  of  enterprise,  so  that,  while  one  sec- 
tion of  the  union  was  outstripping  all  precedents  of 
history  in  industrial  prosperity,  the  other  was  sink- 
ing with  premature  decrepitude.  It  prevented  com- 
mon school  education — the  stamina  of  States — by 
the  extent  of  plantations,  and  the  wide  separation 
of  the  people.  It  was  ever  and  anon  involving  the 
free  labor  of  the  North  in  losses  and  bankruptcy,  by 
the  failure  of  its  supporters  to  meet  their  obliga- 
tions. It  created  an  odious  predominance  of  power, 
based  on  property  in  human  bones  and  sinews.     It 

*  The  report  of  the  Synod  of  Georgia,  December,  1833,  says : 
*•  Such  is  the  universality  and  greatness  of  the  vice  of  lewdness, 
that,  to  those  who  are  acquainted  with  slave  countries,  not  a  word 
need  be  said.  On  a  subject  like  this  we  suffer  not  ourselves  to 
i^eak.  All  the  consequences  of  the  vice  are  to  be  seen."  In  the 
circular  of  the  Kentucky  Union  for  the  moral  and  religious  improve- 
ment of  the  colored  race " — a  society  formed  by  some  of  the  most 
distinguished  gentlemen,  both  of  the  clergy  and  laity,  at  Lexington, 
Ky. — addressed  to  the  ministers  of  the  Gospel  in  the  State,  they  say : 
"  To  the  female  character,  among  the  black  population,  we  cannot 
allude  but  with  feelings  of  the  bitterest  shame.  A  similar  condition 
of  moral  pollution  is  to  be  found  only  without  t/u  pale  of  ChriS' 
tendom^^ 


334  Character-Sketches. 

violated  the  Constitution  by  refusing  a  hearing  to 
the  petitions  of  northern  citizens  in  their  own  legis- 
lative halls  at  Washington.  It  defied  the  laws  and 
powers  of  the  general  Government  by  a  surveillance 
over  the  post-office,  opening  letters,  and  dictating 
to  the  agents  of  the  Government  what  should  and 
what  should  not  be  carried  by  them.  It  usurped 
nearly  all  the  offices  of  our  navy,  army,  and  diplo- 
macy. It  seized  men,  recognized  among  us  as  our 
fellow-citizens,  and  peacefully  occupied  on  board 
our  ships  in  its  harbors,  and  imprisoned  them  in 
its  dungeons,  against  the  express  provision  of 
the  Constitution,  and  the  decisions  of  its  own 
courts  in  former  cases ;  men,  clogged  with  fetters, 
were  sweeping  the  streets  of  its  cities  under  mob 
menaces ;  men  sent  as  messengers  to  appeal  peace- 
fully to  the  laws  in  behalf  of  such  citizens — men 
honorable  by  long  public  standing,  and  clothed 
with  official  authority  for  their  mission.  It  cor- 
rupted the  Church  to  its  infamous  principles,  and 
severed  some  of  the  strongest  religious  bodies  of  the 
land.  Strong  only  in  iniquity  and  braggardism,  it 
nevertheless  made  the  once  strong  spirit  of  the 
North  bow,  for  years,  with  mean  obsequiousness 
before  it,  and  our  Senators  and  Representatives 
cower  at  its  arrogant  threats,  till  a  few  brave  spirits, 
branded  as  fanatics,  and  some  of  them  at  last  made 
such  by  their  terrible  trials,  arose,  and  recalled  us 
to  our  primitive  honor.     It  destroyed  our  national 


Channing — Heresy  and  Reform.       335 

self-respect,  made  us  blush  for  our  pretensions  to 
liberty,  rendered  us  a  "  hissing  and  a  by-word " 
among  the  nations,  and  at  last  shattered  the  Re- 
public by  civil  war,  and  spread  desolation  and 
mourning  through  its  homes.  We  deliberately  say 
there  was  no  iniquity  parallel  to  it  among  the  civil- 
ized or  semi-civilized  communities  of  the  earth. 

The  fine  integrity  and  discernment  of  Chan- 
ning s  mind  could  not  be  perverted  by  that  na- 
tional familiarity  with  this  appalling  evil  which 
produced  among  us  one  of  the  strangest  solecisms 
in  the  history  of  civilization :  a  people  the  most 
enlightened  in  religion  and  law  on  the  earth — whose 
sentiment  of  liberty  had  become  a  national  passion 
— yet,  under  the  maturest  forms  of  liberal  institu- 
tions, and  the  full  blaze  of  the  Christian  revelation, 
dooming  millions  to  a  condition  which  was  never 
dreamed  of  by  oppressors  during  the  midnight  of  the 
feudal  ages!  Channing  saw  it  as  he  would  have 
seen  it  in  a  foreign  land.  If  it  were  to  be  ascer- 
tained that  the  government  of  China  held  from  love 
of  tyranny,  or  from  interest,  one  of  its  great  prov- 
inces, with  a  population  of  three  millions,  in  pre- 
cisely the  condition  of  our  slaves — violating  their 
domestic  relations,  disposing  of  them  as  chattels, 
depriving  them  of  the  gains  of  their  toil,  prohibiting 
all  intellectual  development,  and  converting  them 
and  their  children,  by  inexorable  processes,  into  a 
hopeless  exception  to  all  the  laws  of  development 


336  Character-Sketches. 

and  progress  which  God  has  ordained  for  the  des- 
tinies of  the  human  race — the  discovery  of  such  an 
anomaly  would  astound  the  world.  Almost  any 
effort  from  any  quarter  to  break  it  up  would  be  con- 
sidered right;  the  sentiments  of  mankind  would 
compel  their  governments  to  interfere  with  it  in 
their  negotiations  ;  theologians  would  point  to  it  as 
a  proof  of  the  necessity  of  divine  revelation  ;  Chris- 
tians would  attempt  to  invade  it  with  missionaries 
and  Bibles  ;  the  friends  of  liberty  would  furnish  it 
with  arms,  as  they  furnished  Greece  and  Poland,  for 
a  revolution ;  to  help  men  to  escape  from  it  would 
be  considered  a  holy  service,  and  the  shout  of  insur- 
rection coming  from  it  would  be  responded  to  by 
the  voice  of  the  civilized  world — for,  alas  !  the  world 
has  not  yet  learned  the  better  efficacy  of  better 
means.  Channing  felt  that  he  was  not  to  look  to 
China  for  it — there  was  none  such  there ;  it  was 
under  the  banner  and  amid  the  temples  of  his  own 
land. 

His  letters  to  his  friends  from  Richmond  show 
that  his  opinions  on  slavery  had  been  determined 
at  that  early  date,  (1798.)  During  his  residence  at 
St.  Croix,  West  Indies,  (1830-31,)  he  "  began  to 
draft  the  plan  and  write  the  first  sheets  of  his 
work  on  slavery."  When  he  returned,  the  storm 
of  abolition  agitation  was  sweeping  over  the  land. 
He  did  not  approve  the  measures  of  the  abolition- 
ists, though  "  with  the  central  principles  **  of  the 


CiiANNiNG — Heresy  and  Reform.      337 

movement  '*  his  whole  heart  was  in  unison."  He 
cliose  to  await  a  more  propitious  opportunity  for 
his  appeal  to  his  countrymen.  Meanwhile,  he 
looked  with  deep  solicitude  on  the  courage- 
ous laborers  in  the  cause ;  when  that  noble- 
minded  woman,  Lydia  Maria  Child,  published  the 
*'  first  book  in  the  United  States  "  on  the  subject 
he  called  upon  her  in  person  with  brotherly  en- 
couragements. He  denounced  the  anti-abolition 
mobs  from  his  pulpit,  declaring  that  **  the  civilized 
world  will  heap  just  reproach  on  a  free  nation  in 
which  mobs  pour  forth  their  fury  on  the  opposers 
of  slavery'' 

During  his  rural  seclusion  for  health  on  Rhode 
Island,  in  1835,  he  exhausted  his  strength  writing 
his  book  on  the  subject.  It  appeared  opportunely 
at  the  height  of  the  public  excitement  on  the  ques- 
tion, when  for  a  man  in  his  position  to  take  a 
stand  with  the  persecuted  agitators  was  an  act  of 
heroism  which  could  not  fail  to  have  effect.  *'  I 
never  acted,'*  he  wrote  to  a  friend,  "  under  a 
stronger  conviction  of  duty  than  in  publishing  this 
book.  My  spirit  preyed  on  itself  till  I  had  spoken 
the  truth."  Blessed  be  God  for  such  a  man  at 
such  a  time!  His  example  gives  hope  of  the 
world  ;  good  men  feel  as  they  behold  him,  that 
the  servility  of  millions  shall  not  make  them 
despair  while  one  such  mind  predominates  in  brave 

ascendency. 
22 


338  Character-Sketches. 

In  1836,  when  the  press  of  James  G.  Birney  was 
destroyed  by  a  mob,  he  again  appealed  to  the 
American  pubHc.  In  1837  ^^  wrote  his  celebrated 
letter  to  Mr.  Clay  on  the  Annexation  of  Texas,  a 
publication  that  for  the  time  averted  the  threat- 
ened wrong.  In  1837  Lovejoy  fell  a  martyr  while 
defending  his  press  at  Alton,  Illinois.  Channing, 
with  other  citizens,  demanded  Faneuil  Hall,  Bos- 
ton, for  a  public  meeting  in  defense  of  the  violated 
liberty  of  the  press.  It  was  refused  by  the  city 
authorities,  from  fear  of  the  mob ;  he  wrote  an 
appeal  to  the  citizens  through  the  newspapers,  so 
indignantly  eloquent  that  the  authorities  had  to 
yield,  and  the  ancient  echoes  of  liberty  were  again 
awakened  within  those  revered  and  consecrated 
walls.  He  continued  his  interest  in  this  great 
movement  till  the  last ;  his  last  public  effort  was 
made  against  slavery. 

Authorship  with  Channing  was  quite  fortuitous. 
He  was  singularly  indifferent  to  literary  fame,  and 
perhaps  no  man  ever  felt  less  anxiety  about  the  se- 
verities of  criticism.  He  had,  in  fact,  a  high  moral 
purpose  in  all  he  wrote  ;  a  purpose  that  rendered  him 
superior  to  the  usual  motives  of  literary  ambition. 
He  never  read  the  eulogistic  review  of  his  works  in 
the  Westminster  Quarterly,  though  it  was  several 
times  in  his  hands  ;  and  the  severe,  if  not  malicious, 
criticisms  of  Hazlitt  and  Lord  Brougham  in  the 
Edinburgh  were  equally  neglected.     This  was  not 


Channing— Heresy  and  Reform.      339 

an  affected  indifference;  no  one  knew  the  fact  till 
he  mentioned  it  to  Dr.  Dewey,  as  "  a  piece  of  se- 
cret history  known  to  no  other  person,  and  which  he 
wished  not  to  be  known."  "  I  have  felt,"  he  said, 
"  that  the  less  I  read  about  myself  the  better." 
The  publication  of  his  occasional  sermons  was 
owing  to  the  solicitations  of  his  hearers.  His  ar- 
ticles on  Milton,  Napoleon,  and  F^nelon,  that  first 
brought  him  prominently  before  the  literary  world, 
were  written  with  no  expectation  of  their  extraor- 
dinary success,  but  for  the  purpose  of  giving  a  more 
varied  and  elevated  tone  to  the  "  Christian  Exam- 
iner," which  he  had  been  mainly  instrumental  in 
starting,  as  an  organ  of  the  new  Unitarian  move- 
ment. His  subsequent  publications  were  sermons, 
addresses,  and  lectures  on  practical  questions,  essays 
on  slavery  and  on  other  philanthropic  subjects.  He 
projected  an  elaborate  work  on  "  Man,"  but  had 
only  prepared  four  or  five  chapters  when  death 
closed  his  labors. 

Having  done  the  best  he  could  in  these  writings 
for  the  practical  purpose  before  him,  he  not  only 
disregarded  all  mere  criticism  upon  them,  but  sel- 
dom recurred  to  them  in  his  thoughts.  He  had, 
indeed,  an  almost  morbid  repugnance  to  review  his 
own  productions.  **  I  have,"  he  says,  *'  something 
of  the  nature  of  the  inferior  animals  in  regard  to 
my  literary  offspring.  When  once  they  have  taken 
flight,  I  cast  them  off,  and  have  no  need  of  further 


340  Character-Sketches.  * 

acquaintance."  A  charitable  desire  to  aid  a  friend 
was  the  motive  which  induced  him  to  pubHsh  his 
first  volume  of  Miscellanies  in  1830;  a  similar  mo- 
tive led  to  the  publication  of  a  second  volume ;  and 
at  last  the  complete  edition  of  his  works  in  six 
volumes  was  prepared  for  the  benevolent  purpose 
of  furthering  the  business  of  a  brother.  But, 
though  not  designedly  an  author,  his  literary  rep- 
utation, especially  in  Europe,  is  scarcely  paralleled 
by  that  of  any  other  American  writer  of  his  day. 
He  possessed  the  best  elements  of  a  successful 
writer  —  poetic  temperament  combined  with  the 
philosophic  genius,  and  a  style  of  remarkable  trans- 
parency and  power.  His  critique  on  Milton  is  a 
splendid  estimate  of  the  great  Puritan  bard,  and 
has  been  placed  by  an  English  writer  above  that  of 
Macaulay ;  his  article  on  Napoleon  is  one  of  the 
most  sternly  just  dissections  of  the  moral  man  ever 
made ;  the  terrible  criminality  of  the  despot  is 
brought  out  in  such  contrast  with  his  vast  powers 
as  to  appqjlj^  the  reader.  The  false  glare  of  mar- 
tial and  imperial  splendor  is  extinguished ;  and  the 
Great  Captain  stands  forth  before  the  world  solely 
in  his  moral  responsibility.  The  paper  on  Fenelon 
is  an  admirable  one,  and  in  it  Channing  uncon- 
sciously painted  his  own  exalted  character. 

His  style  has  rare  excellencies,  but  has  faults 
also.  He  repeats  and  expands  too  much,  and  an 
attenuation  of  his   thoughts   is   often    the    result. 


Channing— Heresy  and  Reform.       341 

Still  he  seldom  becomes  tame;  his  sentences  al- 
ways retain  their  silvery  brightness,  even  when 
drawn  out  to  great  tenuity.  His  style  may  be 
compared  to  a  tissue  of  silver  wire,  woven  most 
uniformly,  but  ever  and  anon  incrusted  with  gold 
or  studded  with  gems.  The  pure  moral  element 
of  his  character,  of  which  we  have  repeatedly 
spoken,  is,  above  all,  the  luminous  characteristic 
of  his  writings.  Large  moral  views,  renovating 
thoughts,  meet  you  at  almost  every  page  ;  they 
penetrate  and  palpitate  in  the  soul  of  the  reader. 
This  was  Channing's  power,  and  this  is  the  highest 
power;  this,  when  accompanied,  as  it  was  in  him, 
with  poetic  beauty  and  rare  felicity  of  diction,  forms 
the  highest  example  of  genius. 

We  have  thus  far  contemplated  Channing  chiefly 
in  his  relations  to  public  life  —  as  theologian, 
preacher,  philanthropist,  and  author.  His  more 
private  or  personal  character  was  one  of  exceeding 
beauty.  His  childhood  was  blooming  and  buoy- 
ant, and  marked  by  many  generous  traits.  The 
following  quotation  speaks  significantly  for  his 
boyhood :  "  Thanks  to  my  stars,  I  can  say  I  never 
killed  a  bird.  I  would  not  crush  the  meanest  in- 
sect that  crawls  upon  the  ground.  They  have  the 
same  right  to  life  that  I  have — they  receive  from 
the  same  Father,  and  I  will  not  mar  the  works  of  God 
by  wanton  cruelty."  While  at  college,  the  moral 
strength  of  his  character  was  shown  in   his  entire 


342  Character-Sketches. 

preservation  from  the  immoralities  then  prevalent 
around  him.  His  fellow-collegian,  Judge  White, 
says :  *'  His  wisdom,  goodness,  and  sanctity,  as  well 
as  his  genius  and  intellectual  powers,  were  strongly 
developed ;  and  I  began  to  feel  in  his  company, 
what  only  increased  upon  me  afterward,  a  mingled 
affection  and  respect,  approaching  to  awe,  which 
the  presence  of  no  other  man  ever  inspired  in  the 
same  degree."  This  feeling  of  awe  was  not  uncom- 
mon among  his  friends,  notwithstanding  his  child- 
like simplicity  and  Christian  meekness.  Dewey 
compares  it  to  the  reverence  entertained  for  Wash- 
ington, which  kept  his  most  intimate  camp  associ- 
ates from  laying  the  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  or 
using  with  him  any  similar  familiarity.  It  was,  in 
Channing's  case,  the  effect  of  a  certain  moral  dig- 
nity, nay,  sanctity,  that  attracted  while  it  awed  ; 
you  felt,  notwithstanding  his  kindly  ease,  that  you 
were  in  the  presence  of  a  rare  man,  whose  mental 
and  moral  superiority  humbled  you  with  a  humil- 
ity most  salutary  and  cordial. 

There  was  little  or  no  humor  in  his  otherwise 
genial  temperament ;  but  he  appreciated  it  in  oth- 
ers, especially  if  it  were  not  sarcastic.  No  man  in 
Boston  better  appreciated  Edward  T.  Taylor — that 
remarkable  character  who  was  so  long  one  of  the 
celebrities  of  the  city ;  whom  Emerson  pronounced 
the  greatest  natural  poet  yet  produced  by  the  New 
World ;  who  was  as   much  an   orator  as  a   poet ; 


Channing — Heresy  and  Reform.       343 

who  could  hardly  speak,  in  public  or  private,  with- 
out dropping  from  his  lips  precious  pearls — singu- 
larly beautiful  tropes,  brilliant  epigrams,  happy 
phrases — often  as  rich  in  wisdom  as  in  beauty. 
Taylor  had  exquisite  politeness,  manners  which 
would  have  graced  a  court ;  yet  he  was  the  most 
pungent  of  colloquial  satirists ;  but  he  seldom  or 
never  ventured  a  sarcasm  in  the  presence  of  Chan- 
ning. He  was  not  restrained  by  fear,  for,  like  John 
Knox,  **  he  never  feared  the  face  of  man ;  "  but  his 
sensitive  heart  loved  Channing  with  a  woman's 
idolatry,  and  he  caught  his  sweet  spirit  whenever 
he  approached  him.  There  were  two  men  that 
Taylor  felt  sure  of  meeting  in  heaven,  should  he 
get  there  himself;  they  were  his  old  Methodist 
Bishop  Hedding,  and  his  venerated  "  heretic  '* 
friend  Channing — the  **  angelic  heretic,"  as  he 
called  him.  Taylor  was,  perhaps,  the  greatest  hu- 
morist of  his  day  in  New  England,  and  we  doubt 
whether  Channing  enjoyed  more  the  conversation 
of  any  other  man. 

When  settled  as  pastor,  in  Boston,  Channing  was. 
still  unmarried  ;  he  moved  into  the  parsonage,  and, 
by  the  pretext  of  needing  his  mother's  care,  con- 
trived to  bring  her  and  most  of  her  family  under 
his  protection.  During  her  long  life  his  relations  to 
her  formed  one  of  the  most  beautiful  pictures  of 
filial  affection  on  record.  He  married  his  cousin,  a 
lady  of  wealth,  in  his  thirty-fourth  year,  and  thence- 


344  Character-Sketches. 

forward  enjoyed  life  with  constantly  increasing  de- 
light. His  mother-in-law's  country  residence  on 
Rhode  Island  became  his  home  during  most  of 
each  summer — a  home  suppHed  with  every  thing 
that  could  contribute  to  the  gratification  of  culti- 
vated taste,  and  surrounded  by  some  of  the  finest 
scenery  and  the  blandest  summer  atmosphere  of 
New  England.  It  was  here  that  he  composed  his 
most  important  works,  meditating  them  under  the 
tranquilizing  influence  of  woodland  walks  and 
serene  landscapes.  It  was  his  delight  to  gather 
around  him,  in  the  rural  homestead,  happy  groups 
of  children ;  he  loved  their  confiding  innocence  and 
joy,  and  they  never  felt  in  his  presence  the  awe 
with  which  his  elevation  inspired  older  persons : 
"  A  little  child  during  one  of  these  visits  threw  her- 
self into  the  arms  of  an  elder  friend,  and,  smiling 
through  her  tears,  exclaimed,  '  O,  this  is  heaven ! ' 
so  affected  was  she  by  the  atmosphere  of  love 
which  he  diffused.  And  a  young  girl  wrote,  '  He 
welcomed  me  with  a  kindness  that  took  away  all 
fear— a  kindness  that  I  felt  I  might  trust  forever ; 
for  it  was  like  that  which  must  belong  to  spirits  in 
eternity.  His  daily  life  is  illuminated  by  a  holiness 
that  makes  his  actions  as  impulsive  and  as  peace- 
ful as  a  child's ;  it  is  a  happiness  to  be  in  his 
presence.*  '* 

He  entertained  a  most  delicate  and  exalted  ap- 
preciation of  woman  ;  her  influence   he  considered 


Channing— Heresy  and  Reform.      345 

the  chief  conservative  element  of  modern  civili- 
zation. Ladies  distinguished  in  literature  were 
among  his  correspondents;  and  his  letters  to  Lydia 
Maria  Child,  Felicia  Hemans,  Joanna  Baillie,  Har- 
riet Martineau,  etc.,  are  among  the  best  indications 
of  his  character.  He  believed  that  society  should 
secure  more  fully  the  rights  of  the  sex,  and  he 
practically  carried  out  the  opinion  that  married 
women  should  have  absolute  control  of  the  prop- 
erty they  possessed  before  marriage. 

With  his  fine  sensibility  was  contrasted  a  daunt- 
less moral  courage.  We  can  hardly  conceive  that 
it  were  possible  for  him  to  be  intimidated  in  the 
performance  of  any  known  duty.  He  appeared  in 
the  antislavery  contest  when  he  was  at  the  height 
of  his  reputation  ;  when  the  intelligence  and  fashion 
of  Boston  united  in  paying  him  homage;  and  when 
his  fellow-citizens,  especially  among  the  higher 
classes,  were  prepared  to  see  in  this  step  only  an 
astounding  absurdity,  a  public  self-degradation. 
Many  old  friends  stood  aloof  from  him  after  that 
best  appeal  which  he  could  make  to  their  respect. 
But  he  murmured  not ;  he  held  on  his  course,  grow- 
ing more  serene  and  strong  in  spirit  as  his  years 
advanced,  till  at  last  the  reaction  of  public  opinion 
on  the  subject  of  slavery  began  to  turn  all  generous 
hearts  admiringly  toward  him.  Good  men,  under 
their  new  and  indignant  convictions  of  this  heinous 
national  wrong,  would  weep  in  the  public  assembly 


34^  Character-Sketches. 

at  an  allusion  to  his  sublime  self-sacrifice.  The 
ingenuous  youth  of  Boston,  including  many  of  her 
old  historic  names — her  Phillipses,  Quinceys,  Sum- 
ners,  Adamses,  Bowditches,  Sewels,  etc. — caught 
the  inspiration  of  his  courage,  and  followed  in  his 
footsteps ;  for  he  had  molded  their  moral  charac- 
ters by  his  preaching  and  writings. 

The  time  of  Channing's  public  life  in  Boston  was 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  periods  in  its  history. 
The  social,  political,  and  intellectual  fermentation 
,that  prevailed  there,  especially  during  the  second 
quarter  of  the  century,  reminds  us  of  Athens  under 
Pericles.  The  greatest  men  of  the  New  England 
Athens  were  then  extant,  and  in  their  fullest  en- 
ergy. The  people,  well  trained  in  the  common 
schools,  enthusiastically  crowded  Faneuil  Hall,  the 
Odeon,  Tremont  Temple,  to  hear  John  Quincy 
Adams,  Judge  Story,  Webster,  Everett,  Winthrop, 
and  Choate.  The  pulpit  was  powerful ;  the  elder 
Beecher,  a  very  Hercules  in  polemics,  thundered 
his  orthodoxy  in  one  quarter ;  Channing  announced 
new  opinions  and  attracted,  by  high  discourse, 
throngs  of  dite  minds,  young  and  old,  in  another; 
young  Parker  startled  all  the  city  and  its  vicinity 
by  his  daring  speculations.  Meanwhile  Father 
Taylor  was,  perhaps,  the  most  popular  of  its  pul- 
pit orators ;  his  chapel  was  thronged,  not  only 
by  his  sailors,  but  by  people  of  culture  who  could 
not  resist  the  fascination  of  his  natural  eloquence, 


Channing— Heresy  and  Reform.      347 

but  wept  under  his  pathos,  and  wondered  at  his 
wit  and  wisdom.  The  humble  pulpit  of  the  old 
mariner  was  a  very  throne  of  power,  and  his  cor- 
rugated face,  weather-beaten  on  the  seas,  glowed 
with  a  marvelous  beauty  and  majesty  as  he  swayed 
the  subdued  multitudes  at  his  will.  Noted  for- 
eigners, sojourning  in  the  city,  must  all  go  to  hear 
him  ;  and  some  of  them,  like  Harriet  Martineau, 
Dickens,  etc.,  must  describe  him  in  their  books,  as 
its  intellectual  phenomenon.  Not  far  off,  young 
Emerson  propounds  his  theological  difficulties, 
abdicates  his  pulpit,  and  takes  to  the  lecture  desk 
to  initiate  a  philosophy  which  sets  the  whole  com- 
munity astir  with  wonder  and  debate;  Alcott  and 
Margaret  Fuller  join  him,  and  the  Dial  with  its 
Orphic  Sayings  appears.  The  famous  Roxbury 
experiment  in  Socialism  is  made,  and  fails.  The 
Lowell  Institute  begins  its  lecture  courses;  the 
Lyceum,  or  Lecture  System,  is  started,  and  soon 
extends  over  all  the  Northern  States.  Lowell 
Mason,  with  his  friend,  Webb,  introduces  a  new 
epoch  in  musical  taste,  especially  in  sacred  music, 
which  extends  over  New  England,  and  at  last 
over  the  nation  ;  the  Handel  and  Haydn  Society 
springs  into  enthusiastic  life,  and  familiarizes  the 
people  with  the  best  masters  of  the  art.  AUston 
returns  from  Europe,  crowned  with  artistic  fame, 
to  charm,  by  his  urbanity  and  fine  culture,  the 
social  circles  of  Cambridge  and  themfiUjijjnljs.  and 


348  Character-Sketches. 

to  kindle  the  artistic  ambition  of  their  youth.  The 
elder  Dana  still  remains,  a  social  and  a  literary 
power  ;  the  younger  Dana  makes  his  famous  voyage 
before  the  mast  and  prepares  for  his  literar>'  and 
antislavery  career.  Meanwhile  a  host  of  young 
authors,  reformers,  and  statesmen  begin  to  appear 
on  the  scene.  Young  Hawthorne  writes  his  tenta- 
tive but  brilliant  stories  at  Salem,  and  soon  be- 
comes a  Bostonian;  young  Thoreau  begins  his 
strange  dreams;  young  Lowell,  young  Whittier, 
young  Holmes,  young  Longfellow — alas,  that  we 
can  no  longer  call  them  young! — begin  to  sing. 
Prescott  and  Motley  are  preparing  for  their  suc- 
cessful careers  as  historians.  Garrison  publishes 
his  "  Liberator;  "  Sumner,  Phillips,  Charles  Francis 
Adams,  Dana,  Quincy,  Wilson,  Banks,  Horace  Mann 
— most  of  therri  still  in  the  freshness  of  youth — 
plunge  into  the  antislavery,  the  **  irrepressible  con- 
flict," which  soon  revolutionizes  the  politics  of  the 
State,  and  at  last  regenerates  the  nation,  though  it 
be  by  the  baptism  of  fire  and  of  blood. 

Most  of  these  young  men  began  their  remarkable 
careers  in  Channing's  day  ;  a  few  of  them  soon  after 
his  death ;  all  of  them  were  formed  by  the  influ- 
ences of  that  period.  A  wonderful  time  was  it  for 
the  New  England  metropolis ;  Boston  has  never 
seen  a  greater  day.  Channing  moved,  amid  its 
stirring  events,  a  calm  but  potent  actor  in  the  best 
of  them.     He  was  not  to  see  the  completion  of  the 


Channing — Heresy  and  Reform.      349 

new  era ;  he  saw  its  glory  dawning  all  around  him. 
He  was  to  be  taken  away  from  it  to  a  higher  re- 
ward ;  yet  one  more  effort  must  be  made  for 
liberty.  On  the  first  of  August,  1842,  he  delivered 
at  Lenox  his  last  public  address ;  it  was  in  com- 
memoration of  West  Indian  emancipation ;  he  was 
too  feeble  to  utter  the  whole  of  it,  but  threw  his 
last  strength  into  its  splendid  peroration.  Mrs. 
Sedgwick,  who  heard  him,  says  that  **  his  counte- 
nance was  full  of  spiritual  beauty;  and  when  he 
uttered  that  beautiful  invocation  toward  the  close 
of  his  address — which  would  not  have  been  more 
characteristic  or  fitting  had  he  known  that  he 
should  never  again  speak  in  public — he  looked  like 
one  inspired."  The  effort  exhausted  him ;  it  was 
his  final  and  fitting  service  to  his  country  and  his 
age ;  and  thus  descended  this  great  light :  "  On 
Sunday,  October  2,  as  he  heard  the  bells  ring,  he 
said  to  us,  *  Now  go  to  church.'  *  It  is  a  part  of 
our  religion,  dear  sir,  to  nurse  the  sick  and  aid  our 
friends.*  'True,*  he  replied, 'you  may  stay.'  He 
asked  us  to  read  to  him  from  the  New  Testament. 
'From  what  part?'  'From  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount.*  As  we  closed  the  Lord's  Prayer,  he  looked 
up,  with  a  most  expressive  smile,  and  said,  '  That 
will  do  now ;  I  find  that  I  am  too  much  fatigued  to 
hear  more.  I  take  comfort,  (9,  the  greatest  comfort, 
from  these  words.  They  are  full  of  the  divine  spirit 
of  our  religion.*     In  the  afternoon   he  spoke  very 


350  Character-Sketches. 

earnestly,  but  in  a  hollow  whisper.  I  bent  forward  ; 
but  the  only  words  I  could  distinctly  hear  were,  *  I 
have  received  many  messages  from  the  Spirit.'  As 
the  day  decHned  his  countenance  fell,  and  he  grew 
fainter  and  fainter.  With  our  aid  he  turned  him- 
self toward  the  window,  which  looked,  over  valleys 
and  wooded  summits,  to  the  east.  We  drew  back 
the  curtains,  and  the  light  fell  upon  his  face.  The 
sun  had  just  set ;  the  clouds  and  sky  were  bright 
with  gold  and  crimson.  He  breathed  more  and 
more  gently,  and,  without  a  struggle  or  a  sigh,  the 
body  fell  asleep.  We  knew  not  when  the  spirit 
passed.  Amid  the  glory  of  autumn,  at  an  hour 
hallowed  by  his  devout  associations,  on  the  day 
consecrated  to  the  memory  of  the  risen  Christ,  and 
looking  eastward,  as  if  in  the  setting  sun's  reflected 
light  he  saw  promises  of  a  brighter  morning,  he  was 
taken  home." 

His  remains  were  brought  to  Boston,  and  com- 
mitted to  the  grave  amid  the  mourning  of  all 
classes  and  parties.  As  the  procession  moved  from 
the  church,  the  bell  of  the  Catholic  cathedral 
tolled  his  knell — a  fact  never  perhaps  paralleled 
before  in  the  history  of  Romanism. 

And  so  departed  one  of  the  great  men  of  the 
Republic — one  who,  amid  its  servility  to  mammon 
and  to  slavery,  ceased  not  to  recall  it  to  the  sense 
of  honor  and  duty — a  man  whose  memory  hia 
countrymen   will    not    willingly    let    die.      As   the 


Channing — Heresy  and  Reform.      351 

visitor  wanders  among  the  shaded  aisles  of  the 
western  part  of  Mount  Auburn,  he  sees  a  massive 
monument  of  marble  designed  by  Allston,  the 
poet-painter.  Generous  and  brave  men,  from  what- 
ever clime,  resort  to  it,  and  go  from  it  more  gen- 
erous and  brave,  for  there  reposes  the  great  and  the 
good  man  whom  we  have  commemorated.  The 
early  beams,  intercepted  by  neighboring  heights, 
fall  not  upon  the  spot ;  but  the  light  of  high  noon, 
and  the  later  and  benigner  rays  of  the  day,  play 
through  the  foliage  in  dazzling  gleams  upon  the 
marble — a  fitting  emblem  of  his  fame :  for  when 
the  later  and  better  light  which  is  yet  to  bless  our 
desolate  race  shall  come,  it  will  fall  with  bright 
illustration  on  the  character  of  this  rare  man,  and 
on  the  exalted  aims  of  his  life. 


352  Character-Sketches. 


VIII. 

WESLEY — APOSTLESHIP. 

ROBERT  SOUTH  EY  wrote  our  most  enter- 
taining, if  not  our  most  satisfactory,  life  of 
John  Wesley.  We  are  inclined  to  pronounce  it  the 
best  of  all  his  prose  works,  notwithstanding  the 
classic  rank  usually  awarded  to  his  life  of  Nelson. 
Coleridge  read  it  many  times  with  ever-increasing 
interest,  and  annotated  it,  affirming  that  when, 
through  illness  or  ennui,  he  could  read  nothing  else, 
its  romantic  pages  never  failed  to  delight  him.  South- 
ey's  theory  of  the  Great  Methodistic  Movement 
was  fallacious,  as  he  subsequently  acknowledged  ; 
Wesley's  followers  have  never  liked  his  book ;  but 
no  scholar  among  them,  ,who  is  familiar  with  their 
history  and  literature,  can  fail  to  be  astonished  at 
the  almost  absolute  thoroughness  of  his  research, 
and  the  equal  accuracy  of  his  data.  In  a  private 
letter  to  Wilberforce,  Southey  wrote :  "  I  consider 
Wesley  as  the  most  influential  mind  of  the  last 
century  —  the  man  who  will  have  produced  the 
greatest  effects  centuries,  or  perhaps  millenniums, 
hence,  if  the  present  race  of  men  should  continue 
so  long" — and  that  was  the  century  in  which 
lived  Frederick  the  Great,  Washington,  Napoleon, 


Wesley— Apostleship.  353 

Newton,  Goethe,  Voltaire,  and  not  a  few  other  his- 
torical men. 

On  February  23,  1 79 1,  Wesley  preached  his  last 
sermon  ;  and  it  has  been  remarked  that  "  on  that 
day  fell  from  his  dying  grasp  a  trumpet  of  the  truth 
which  had  sounded  the  everlasting  Gospel  oftener 
and  more  effectually  than  that  of  any  other  man 
for  sixteen  hundred  years."  The  Reformers  of 
Germany,  Switzerland,  France,  and  England  wrought 
their  great  work  more  by  the  pen  than  by  the 
voice.  It  has  been  admitted  that  Whitefield 
preached  more  eloquently,  with  few  exce|)tion^  to 
larger  assemblies,  and  traveled  more*^xtensively 
(though  not  more  miles)  than  Wesley,  within  the 
same  limits  of  time  ;  but  Wesley  survived  him  more 
than  twenty  years,  and  his  power  has  been  more  pro- 
ductive and  more  permanent.  Whitefield  preached 
eighteen  thousand  sermons — more  than  ten  a  week 
for  his  thirty-four  years  of  ministerial  life.  Wesley 
preached  forty-two  thousand  four  hundred  after 
his  return  from  Georgia — more  than  fifteen  a  week. 
His  public  life,  ending  on  February  23,  1791,  stands 
out  in  the  history  of  the  world  unquestionably  pre- 
eminent in  religious  labors  above  that  of  any  other 
man  since  the  apostolic  age. 

In  reading  the  history  of  such  a  man  we  linger 

over  the  record  with  eager  questions — What  is  the 

explanation   of  this  anomalous  life?     How  did  he 

achieve  his  incomparable  labors?     What  were  the 
28 


354  Character-Sketches. 

distinctive    attributes    of   his   character?     Whence 
was  his  power  ? 

Contemplated  in  almost  any  one  of  its  phases, 
the  life  of  Wesley  appears  unusual,  if  not  great ;  but 
considered  as  a  whole,  its  symmetrical  complete- 
ness is  almost  a  pecuHarity  in  the  history  of  dis- 
tinguished men  ;  for  how  seldom  do  we  find,  in  the 
biographies  of  such  men,  that  any  great  life-plan 
has  been  conclusively  achieved — achieved  in  such 
manner  as  to  complete  their  own  anticipations,  and 
not  to  leave  to  the  precarious  agency  of  their  suc- 
cessors the  task  of  fulfilling  their  designs,  or  of 
repairing  their  failures?  Wesley  not  only  saw 
the  initiation  of  the  Methodistic  movement,  but 
conducted  it  through  the  successive  and  critical 
gradations  of  its  development,  and  lived  to  see  it 
at  last  an  organic,  a  settled  and  permanent  system, 
in  the  Old  World  and  in  the  New,  with  a  thoroughly 
organized  ministry,  a  well-defined  and  well-defended 
theology,  the  richest  psalmody  then  known  to  En- 
glish Protestantism,  a  considerable  literature,  not 
of  the  highest  order,  but  therefore  the  better 
adapted  to  his  numerous  people,  and  a  scheme  of 
ecclesiastical  discipline  which  time  has  proved  to 
be  the  most  effective  known  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  papal  Church.  By  his  episcopal  organization 
of  his  American  societies,  and  the  legal  settlement 
of  his  English  Conference,  he  saw  his  great  plan  in 
a  sense  completed  ;  it  could  be   committed   to  the 


Wesley— Apostleship.  355 

contingencies  of  the  future,  to  work  out  its  ap- 
pointed functions  ;  and,  after  those  two  great  events, 
he  was  permitted  to  Hve  long  enough  to  control 
any  incidental  disturbances  that  might  attend  their 
first  operations,  and  to  pass  through  a  healthful, 
serene  conclusion  of  his  long  life — a  life  which  the 
philosopher  must  pronounce  singularly  successful 
and  fortunate,  the  Christian  singularly  providential. 
He  not  only  outlived  all  the  various  uncertainties 
of  his  great  work;  he  outlived  the  prolonged  and 
fierce  hostilities  which  had  assailed  it ;  the  sus- 
picions and  slanders  which  had  been  rife  against 
himself  personally;  and  died  at  last  universally  ven- 
erated, without  pain,  without  disease,  in  his  bed  at 
his  own  home,  at  the  head-quarters  of  his  success- 
ful cause,  and  with  the  prayers  and  benedictions  of 
the  second  and  third  generations  of  his  people. 

And  this  life,  so  fortunate  in  its  rare  complete- 
ness, was  still  more  remarkable  for  its  manifold  as- 
pects. Wesley  seemed  to  be  conducting  at  once 
the  usual  lives  of  three  or  four  men,  if  indeed 
the  word  usual  can  be  applied  to  any  one  depart- 
ment of  his  life.  In  either  his  literary  labors  or  his 
travels,  his  functions  as  an  ecclesiastical  legislator 
and  administrator,  or  his  labors  as  an  evangelist  or 
preacher,  he  has  seldom  been  surpassed ;  and  a  his- 
torian of  Methodism  hardly  makes  a  questionable 
assertion,  when  he  affirms  that  a  man  of  more  ex- 
traordinary character  probably  never  lived  upon  this 


356  Character-Sketches. 

earth  ;  that  his  travels,  his  studies,  or  his  ministerial 
labors  were  each  more  than  sufficient  for  any  ordi- 
nary man ;  that  few  men  could  have  endured  to 
travel  so  much  as  he  did,  without  either  reading, 
writing,  or  preaching;  that  few  could  have  endured 
to  preach  as  often  as  he  did,  supposing  they  had 
neither  traveled  nor  written  books;  and  that  very 
few  men  could  have  written  and  published  so  many 
books  as  he  did,  though  they  had  always  avoided 
both  preaching  and  traveling. 

He  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree  one  trait  of  a 
master  mind — the  power  of  comprehending  and 
managing  at  once  the  outlines  and  the  details  of 
plans.  It  is  this  power  that  forms  the  philosoph- 
ical genius  in  science ;  it  is  essential  to  the  success- 
ful commander  and  the  great  statesman.  It  is 
illustrated  in  the  whole  economical  system  of 
Methodism — a  system  which,  while  it  fixes  itself  to 
the  smallest  locality  with  the  utmost  tenacity,  is 
sufficiently  general  in  its  provisions  to  reach  the 
ends  of  the  world,  and  still  maintain  its  unity  of 
spirit  and  discipline. 

No  man  knew  better  than  Wesley  the  import- 
ance of  small  things.  His  whole  financial  system 
was  based  on  weekly  penny  collections ;  and  it  was 
a  rule  of  himself  and  his  preachers  never  to  omit  a 
single  preaching  appointment,  except  from  invinci- 
ble necessity.  He  was  the  first  to  apply  extensive- 
ly the  plan  of  tract  distribution.     He  wrote,  printed, 


Wesley— Apostleship.  357 

and  scattered  over  the  kingdom,  pamphlets  and 
placards  on  almost  every  topic  of  morals  and  relig- 
ion. In  addition  to  the  usual  services  of  the 
Church,  he  introduced  the  band-meeting,  the  class- 
meeting,  the  prayer-meeting,  the  love-feast,  the 
watch-night,  the  quarterly  meeting,  and  the  annual 
conference.  Not  content  with  his  itinerant  labor- 
ers, he  called  into  use  the  less  available  powers  of 
his  people  by  establishing  the  departments  of  local 
preachers,  exhorters,  and  leaders.  It  was,  in  fine, 
by  gathering  together  fragments,  by  combining 
minutiae,  that  he  formed  that  powerful  system  of 
spiritual  means  which  is  transcending  all  others  in 
the  evangelization  of  the  world. 

Equally  minute  was  he  in  his  personal  habits. 
Moore,  his  biographer  and  companion  at  City 
Road,  says  that  the  utmost  neatness  and  simplicity 
were  manifest  in  every  circumstance  of  his  life ; 
that  in  his  chamber  and  study,  during  his  winter 
months  of  residence  in  London,  not  a  book  was 
misplaced,  or  even  a  scrap  of  paper  left  unheeded ; 
that  he  could  enjoy  every  convenience  of  life  and 
yet  acted  in  the  smallest  thing  like  a  man  who  was 
not  to  continue  an  hour  in  one  place;  that  he  ap- 
peared at  home  in  every  place,  settled,  satisfied, 
and  happy ;  and  yet  was  ready  any  hour  to  take  a 
journey  of  a  thousand  miles. 

It  was  not  only  in  the  theoretical  construction  of 
plans  that  Wesley  excelled,  if  indeed  he  paused  at 


35vS  Character-Sketches. 

all  to  theorize  about  plans;  but  he  was  pre-emi- 
nently distinguished  by  the  practical  energy  with 
which  he  prosecuted  the  great  variety  of  his  labors. 
Their  history  would  be  absolutely  incredible  with 
less  authentic  evidence  than  that  which  attests  it. 
He  was  perpetually  traveling  and  preaching,  study- 
ing and  writing,  translating  and  abridging,  superin- 
tending his  societies,  and  applying  his  great  con- 
ceptions. He  traveled  usually  four  thousand  five 
hundred  miles  a  year,  and  this  itineracy,  at  the 
rate  of  more  than  the  circumference  of  the  globe 
every  six  years,  was  pursued  on  horseback  down 
to  nearly  his  seventieth  year — preaching  two,  three, 
and  sometimes  four  sermons  a  day,  commencing  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  and  in  all  this  inces- 
sant traveling  and  preaching  he  carried  with  him 
the  studious  and  meditative  habits  of  the  philoso- 
pher. Scarcely  a  department  of  literature  or  scien- 
tific inquiry  escaped  his  attention. 

Like  Luther,  he  knew  the  importance  of  the 
press ;  he  kept  it  teeming  with  his  publications, 
and  his  itinerant  preachers  were  good  agents  for 
their  circulation.  His  works,  including  abridg- 
ments and  translations,  amounted  to  about  two 
hundred  volumes.  They  comprise  treatises  on 
almost  every  subject  of  divinity,  on  poetry,  music, 
history;  natural,  moral,  metaphysical,  and  polit- 
ical philosophy.  He  wrote,  as  he  preached,  ad 
populum ;   and  he  was  not  only  the  original  leader, 


Wlslev — ArosTLEsiiiP.  359 

but  the  author,  of  those  plans  which  have  become 
■J.  feature  of  our  times  for  the  popular  diffusion  of 
knowledge. 

Unlike  most  men  who  are  given  to  various  exer- 
tions and  many  plans,  he  was  accurate  and  profound. 
He  was  an  adept  in  classical  literature  and  the  use 
of  the  classical  tongues ;  his  writings  are  adorned 
with  their  finest  passages.  He  was  familiar  with 
a  number  of  modern  languages;  his  own  style  is 
one  of  the  best  examples  of  strength  and  perspicuity 
among  English  writers.  He  seems  to  have  been 
ready  on  almost  every  subject  of  learning  and  gen- 
eral literature  ;  as  a  logician,  he  was  remarkably 
acute  and  decisive,  famous  in  his  college  at  Oxford 
for  technical  logic. 

He  was  but  little  addicted  to  those  vicissitudes 
of  temper  which  characterize  imaginative  minds. 
His  temperament  was  warm,  but  not  fiery.  His  in- 
tellect never  appears  inflamed,  but  always  glowing 
— a  serene  radiance.  His  immense  labors  were 
accomplished,  not  by  the  impulses  of  restless  en- 
thusiasm, but  by  the  cool  calculation  of  his  plans, 
and  the  steady  self-possession  with  which  he  pur- 
sued them.  I  He  habitually  exemplified  his  favor- 
ite maxim :  "Always  in  haste,  but  never  in  a 
hurry."  "I  have  not  time,"  he  said,  *' to  be  in  a 
hurry."  He  was  as  economical  of  his  time  as  a 
miser  could  be  of  his  gold ;  rising  at  four  o'clock 
in    the   morning,   and   allotting   to    every  hour  its 


360  Character-Sketches. 

appropriate  work.  "  Leisure  and  I,"  he  wrote, 
"  have  taken  leave  of  each  other."  Fletcher  of 
Madeley  said  of  him  :  ''  Though  oppressed  with  the 
weight  of  near  seventy  years,  and  the  care  of  near 
thirty  thousand  souls,  he  shames  still,  by  his  un- 
abated zeal  and  immense  labors,  all  the  young  min- 
isters of  England,  perhaps  of  Christendom.  He  has 
generally  blown  the  gospel  trump,  and  rode  twenty 
miles,  before  most  of  the  professors  who  despise  his 
labors  have  left  their  downy  pillows.  As  he  begins 
the  day,  the  week,  the  year,  so  he  concludes  them, 
still  intent  upon  extensive  services  for  the  glory  of 
the  Redeemer  and  the  good  of  souls."  Such,  how- 
ever, was  the  happy  distribution  of  his  time,  that, 
amid  a  multiplicity  of  engagements  that  would 
distract  an  ordinary  man,  he  declares  there  were 
few  persons  who  spent  so  many  hours  in  studious 
solitude  as  himself.  And  it  has  justly  been  re- 
marked, that  one  wonder  of  his  character  was  the 
self-control  by  which  he  preserved  himself  calm, 
while  he  kept  all  in  excitement  around  him. 

Like  most  remarkable  men  who  have  reached 
old  age,  Wesley  was  careful  in  his  physical  habits. 
Though  of  feeble  constitution,  his  regularity,  sus- 
tained through  such  great  exertions  and  vicissitudes, 
produced  a  vigor  and  equanimity  which  are  seldom 
the  accompaniments  of  a  laborious  mind  or  of  a 
distracted  life.  And  often  did  he  declare  that  he 
had  not    felt  lowness   of  spirits  one  quarter  of  an 


Wesley— Apostleship.  361 

hour  since  he  was  born ;  that  ten  thousand  cares 
were  no  more  weight  to  his  mind  than  ten  thou- 
sand hairs  to  his  head ;  and  that  he  never  lost  a 
night's  sleep  in  his  life  before  his  seventieth 
year. 

One  of  the  noblest  spectacles  in  human  life  is  the 
sight  of  an  old  man  sustaining  his  career  of  action 
or  of  endurance,  to  the  last,  with  an  unwavering 
spirit.  Such  was  Wesley.  He  sought  no  repose 
till  death.  Activity  was  the  normal  condition  of 
happiness  to  him,  as  it  must  be  to  all  healthful 
minds.  After  the  eightieth  year  of  his  age  he 
visited  Holland  twice.  At  the  end  of  his  eighty- 
second  he  wrote,  "  I  am  never  tired  with  writing, 
preaching,  or  traveling."  The  scene  of  his  preach- 
ing under  trees  which  he  had  planted  himself  at 
Kingswood,  and  when  most  of  his  old  disciples 
there  were  dead,  their  children's  children  sur- 
rounded him,  has  perhaps  no  parallel  in  history. 
He  outlived  most  of  his  first  preachers,  and  stood 
up,  mighty  in  intellect  and  labors,  amid  the  second 
and  third  generations  of  his  people ;  and  it  is 
affecting  to  trace  him  through  his  latter  years, 
when  persecution  had  subsided,  and  he  was  every- 
where received  as  a  patriarch,  sometimes  exciting, 
by  his  arrival  in  towns  and  cities,  an  interest  such 
as  the  king  himself  would  produce.  He  attracted 
the  largest  assemblies  which  have  been  congregated 
for  religious  instruction  in  modern  ages,  being  esti- 


^f2  Character-Sketches. 

mated  sometimes  at  more  than  thirty  thousand. 
Great  physically,  intellectually,  and  morally,  when 
at  length  he  died,  in  the  eighty-eighth  year  of  his 
age  and  sixty-fourth  of  his  ministry,  he  was  be- 
yond question  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  men 
of  history. 

He  lived  to  see  Methodism  spread  through 
Great  Britain,  America,  and  the  West  India  Isl- 
ands. Hundreds  of  traveling,  thousands  of  local 
preachers,  and  tens  of  thousands  of  followers,  were 
connected  with  him  at  his  death.  And  how 
have  they  multiplied  since!  In  our  day  they  re- 
port about  five  million  of  communicants,  twenty 
million  of  adherents.  The  epitaph  of  Sir  Christo- 
pher Wren,  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  the  work  of  his 
own  genius,  is  applicable  to  Wesley's  memory  in 
almost  all  the  Protestant  world  :  "  Do  you  ask  for 
his  monument  ?     Look  around  you.*' 

Such  was  the  life  of  Wesley  in  its  outlines;  a 
minute  examination  of  his  traits  can  only  confirm 
these  more  striking  characteristics. 

As  a  preacher  he  remains  a  problem  to  us.  It  is 
well  nigh  impossible  to  explain,  at  this  remote  day, 
the  secret  of  his  great  power  in  the  pulpit,  apart 
from  the  divine  influence  that  is  pledged  to  all 
faithful  ministers.  Whitefield  may  be  considered 
the  chief  model,  if  not  the  founder,  of  that  popular 
and  powerful  hortatory  preaching  that,  since  his 
day,    has    been    characteristic    of  Methodism,    and 


Wesley— Apostleship.  363 

which  ^as  still  in  our  day  thundered  along  its  great 
American  circuits,  and  shaken  the  vast  multitudes 
of  its  assemblies  in  the  wilderness  and  in  its  camp- 
meetings.  Charles  Wesley,  Fletcher,  and  many 
others  of  the  early  Methodist  preachers,  were  good 
examples  of  it — men  of  emotion,  of  passion,  of  tears, 
and  of  native  eloquence.  Wesley,  perspicuous,  log- 
ical, peculiarly  self-possessed  and  calm,  was  never- 
theless more  powerful  than  any  of  them  in  the 
influence  of  his  discourses  on  both  the  sensibilities 
and  the  understandings  of  his  hearers.  The  marvel- 
ous physical  effects  which  attended  the  first  Meth- 
odist preaching  began  earlier,  and  were  more  fre- 
quent, under  his  discourses  than  under  Whitefield's. 
They  continued,  more  or  less,  till  the  end  of  his 
career.  There  must  have  been  some  peculiar  power 
in  his  address  which  the  records  of  the  times  have 
failed  to  describe ;  something  more  than  what  we 
can  infer  from  the  descriptions  of  those  who  heard 
him,  and  who  tell  us  that  his  attitude  in  the  pulpit 
was  graceful  and  easy;  his  action  calm  and  natural, 
yet  pleasing  and  expressive  ;  his  voice  not  loud, 
but  clear,  agreeable,  and  masculine ;  his  style  cor- 
rect and  perspicuous. 

The  obviously  great  character  of  the  man,  and 
the  prestige  of  his  singular  career,  doubtless  gave 
authority  to  his  word,  so  that  his  hearers  felt  as 
did  Beattie,  who  heard  him  at  Aberdeen,  and  who 
remarked,  after  one  of  his  ordinary  discourses,  that 


364  Character-Sketches. 

"it  was  not  a  masterly  sermon,  yet  none  but  a  mas- 
ter could  have  preached  it ;  "  but  before  he  had  any 
such  prestige,  his  calm  power  in  the  pulpit  was  as 
extraordinary  as  at  any  later  period.  The  stoutest 
hearts  quailed  before  him  ;  the  most  hardened  men 
sank  to  the  earth  overwhelmed ;  infuriated  mobs 
retreated,  or  oftener  yielded,  acknowledging  the 
magic  of  his  word ;  and  their  leaders,  shouting  in 
his  defense  above  the  din  of  the  tumult,  conducted 
him  safely  and  in  triumph  to  his  lodgings.  There 
was  a  trait  of  military  coolness  and  command  in  his 
manner  at  times,  which  reminds  us  of  his  name- 
sake,"^ the  greatest  captain  of  his  country.  It  is 
doubtful  whether,  like  Whitefield  or  Charles  Wes- 
ley, he  wept  much  in  preaching ;  he  exhorted  and 
entreated,  but  he  mostly  spoke  as  ''  one  having 
authority "  from  God.  Hence  the  effectiveness  of 
his  rebukes,  as  often  recorded  in  his  Journals.  "  Be 
silent  or  be  gone,"  he  cried  once  to  a  party  of 
papists  in  Ireland,  who  interrupted  his  services, 
"  and  their  noise  ceased."  "A  few  gentry  "  dis- 
turbed one  of  his  assemblies ;  he  **  rebuked  them 
openly,  and  they  stood  corrected."  "  I  rebuked 
him  sharply,"  he  writes  of  a  certain  character,  *'  and 
he  was  ashamed."  In  a  brilliant  congregation, 
among  whom  were  honorable  and  right  honorable 
persons,"  he  says,  "  I  felt  they  were  given  into  my 

*  Wellington  was  of  the  same   ancestry,  and  their  names  were 
criminally  the  same. 


Wesley— Apostleship.  365 

hands,  for  God  was  in  the  midst  of  us."  At  times, 
however,  there  was  mixed  with  this  authoritative 
power  an  overwhelming  pathos.  In  the  midst  of  a 
mob  **  I  called,"  he  writes,  "  for  a  chair ;  the  winds 
were  hushed,  and  all  was  calm  ;  my  heart  was  filled 
with  love,  my  eyes  with  tears,  my  mouth  with  ar- 
guments. They  were  amazed,  they  were  ashamed, 
they  were  melted  down,  they  devoured  every  word," 
That  must  have  been  genuine  eloquence. 

His  Journals  continually  afford  examples  of  his 
power  over  his  opponents.  On  entering  one  of  his 
congregations  he  meets  a  man  who  refuses  to  return 
his  bow,  or  to  kneel  during  the  prayer,  or  to  stand 
during  the  singing  ;  but  under  the  sermon  his  coun- 
tenance changes  ;  soon  he  turns  his  face  abashed  to 
the  wall ;  he  stands  at  the  second  hymn,  kneels  at 
the  second  prayer,  and  as  Wesley  goes  out  catches 
him  by  the  hand,  and  takes  leave  of  him  ''with  a 
hearty  blessing."  As  he  approaches  an  out-door 
assembly,  in  another  place,  "  a  huge  man  "  runs 
fully  against  him  ;  he  repeats  the  insult  with  oaths, 
and,  pressing  furiously  through  the  crowd,  plants 
himself  close  by  the  preacher.  Before  the  close 
of  the  sermon  his  countenance  changes;  soon  he 
takes  off  his  hat,  and  when  Wesley  concludes, 
seizes  his  hand,  **  presses  it  earnestly,  and  goes 
away  quiet  as  a  lamb."  He  was  once  accosted 
in  Moorfields  by  a  drunkard  who  could  hardly 
stand.     Wesley  conversed  with  him  and  gave  him 


366  Character-Sketches. 

his  tract  called,  **  A  Word  to  a  Drunkard."  ''  Sir, 
sir,"  he  stammered,  "  I  am  wrong ;  I  know  I  am 
wrong."  He  held  Wesley  by  the  hand  for  a  full 
half  hour.  ''  I  believe,"  says  the  latter,  ''  he  got 
drunk  no  more."  In  his  prayers,  as  well  as  his  ex- 
hortations, was  this  singular  power  manifest.  "  As 
we  were  concluding,"  he  writes  at  Newcastle,  "  an 
eminent  backslider  came  into  my  mind,  and  I  broke 
out  abruptly,  "  Lord,  is  Saul  also  among  the  proph- 
ets? Is  James  Watson  here?  If  he  be,  show  thy 
power!'  Down  dropped  James  Watson  like  a 
stone,  and  began  crying  aloud." 

The  calm  ministerial  authority  which  so  much 
characterized  him  was  not  assumed  ;  it  was  the 
spontaneous  effect  of  a  true  and  a  natural  courage. 
Military  men  instinctively  recognized  it  whenever 
they  came  into  his  presence ;  and  soldiers  were 
among  his  most  respectful  hearers  and  enthusi- 
astic admirers.  Had  he  been  a  military  leader 
he  would  have  been  the  cool,  intrepid  man  in  the 
field  that  he  was  in  the  mob.  It  was  not  only 
his  maxim  always  "  to  face  the  mob,"  but  he  in- 
variably kept  his  ground  till  he  conquered  it. 
He  was  sometimes  pelted,  pushed,  dragged  by 
clamorous  thousands  from  village  to  village,  in  the 
night,  while  the  rain  descended  in  a  storm,  and  yet 
as  self-possessed  "  as  if  he  were  in  his  study ; "  and 
his  calm  voice,  ringing  in  prayer  above  the  noise, 
silenced  with  awe   the   excited  multitude,  and  con- 


Wesley— Apostlesiiip.  367 

verted  their  leaders  into  defenders  who  safely  de- 
livered him.  Such  a  man  on  a  field  of  battle  would 
have  courageously  done  whatever  was  to  be  done, 
whether  it  were  to  lead  a  forlorn  hope,  to  head  a 
charge,  or,  more  difficult  still,  to  conduct  a  perilous 
retreat.  It  is  doubtful  whether  John  Wesley  ever 
felt,  or  could  readily  feel,  the  emotion  of  terror. 
Such  a  susceptibility  would  seem  to  have  been  in- 
compatible with  his  temperament.  Not  only  in 
mobs,  when  his  life  was  at  stake,  but  in  sudden 
and  perilous  accidents,  he  never  lost  his  self-posses- 
sion. As  he  was  hastening  through  a  narrow  street 
a  cart  swiftly  turned  into  it ;  he  checked  his  horse, 
but  was  *'  shot  over  its  head  as  an  arrow  from  a 
bow,**  and  lay  with  his  arms  and  legs  stretched 
in  a  line  close  to  the  wall.  The  wheel  grazed  along 
his  side,  soiling  his  clothes.  "  I  found  no  flutter 
of  spirit,"  he  says,  "  but  the  same  composure  as  if 
I  had  been  sitting  in  my  study."  Trifles,  so  called, 
often  reveal  the  characters  of  great  men  better  than 
their  most  conspicuous  deeds.  The  bending  forest 
shows  the  course  of  the  storm,  but  straws  show  it 
as  well  and  more  readily. 

A  fine  humor  pervaded  the  natureof  Wesley,  and 
often  gave  striking  readiness  and  pertinency  to  his 
words.  Thomas  Walsh,  one  of  his  most  learned 
and  most  saintly  preachers,  was  morbidly  scrupu- 
lous, and  complained  in  a  letter  to  him,  that  among 
the  "three  or  four  persons  that  tempted"  him  to 


368  Character-Sketches. 

kvity,  ''you,  sir,  are  one,  by  your  witty  proverbs." 
Wesley's  humor,  however,  enhanced  the  blandness 
of  his  piety,  and  enabled  him  sometimes  to  convey 
reproof  in  a  manner  that  could  hardly  be  resented 
with  ill  temper.  '*  Michael  Fenwick,"  he  says,  **was 
often  hindered  from  settling  in  business,  because 
God  had  other  work  for  him  to  do.  He  is  just 
made  to  travel  with  me,  being  an  excellent  groom, 
valet  de  chambre,  nurse,  and,  upon  occasion,  a  tol- 
erable preacher."  This  good  man  one  day  was  vain 
enough  to  complain  to  him  that,  though  constantly 
traveling  with  him,  his  own  name  was  never  inserted 
in  Wesley's  published  Journals.  In  the  next  num- 
ber of  the  Journals  he  found  his  egotism  effectually 
rebuked.  "  I  left  Epworth,"  wrote  Wesley,  "  with 
great  satisfaction,  and,  about  one,  preached  at 
Clayworth.  I  think  none  were  unmoved  but  Michael 
Fenwick,  who  fell  fast  asleep  under  an  adjoining 
hay-rick." 

He  could  be  noble  in  his  reproofs  as  in  all  things 
else.  Joseph  Bradford  was  for  many  years  his  trav- 
eling companion,  and  considered  no  assistance  to 
him  too  servile,  but  was  subject  to  changes  of  tem- 
per. Wesley  directed  him  to  carry  a  package  of 
letters  to  the  post ;  Bradford  wished  to  hear  his 
sermon  first.  Wesley  was  urgent  and  insisted; 
Bradford  refused.  "■  Then,"  said  Wesley,  "  you  and 
I  must  part."  "  Very  good,  sir,"  replied  Bradford. 
They  slept  over  it.     On  rising   the    next  morning 


Wesley — Apostleship.  369 

Wesley  accosted  his  old  friend  and  asked  if  he  had 
considered  what  he  had  said,  that ''  they  must  part  ?  '* 
*'  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Bradford.  "  And  must  we 
part  ?  "  inquired  Wesley.  **  Please  yourself,  sir," 
was  the  reply.  "  Will  you  ask  my  pardon  ?  "  rejoined 
Wesley.  "No,  sir."  ''You  wont?"  "No,  sir." 
*'  Then  I  will  ask  yours !  "  replied  the  great  man. 
Bradford  melted  under  the  example,  and  wept  like 
a  child. 

The  aptness  of  Wesley's  replies  sometimes  took 
the  form  of  severe  repartee,  but  only  when  it  was 
deserved.  "Sir,"  said  a  blustering,  low-lived  man, 
w^ho  attempted  to  push  against  him  and  throw  him 
down ;  "  sir,  I  never  make  way  for  a  fool."  "  I 
always  do,"  replied  Wesley,  stepping  aside  and 
calmly  passing  on. 

In  befitting  circumstances,  however,  no  man 
could  show  more  Christian  meekness  in  the  treat- 
ment of  offenses.  At  Dewsbury  a  person,  full  of 
rage,  pressed  through  the  throng,  and  struck  him 
violently  on  the  face  with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
Wesley,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  recollecting  the  pre- 
cept of  Christ,  turned  to  him  the  other  cheek.  His 
assailant  was  awed  by  his  example  and  slunk  back 
into  the  crowd ;  he  became  a  friend  to  the  Method- 
ists, and  afterward  imperiled  his  life  to  save  one  of 
their  chapels  from  being  destroyed  by  fire. 

No  fact  could  better   refute  the  imputation  of 

fanaticism  to  Wesley  than  the  catholic  spirit  which 
24 


3/0  Character-Sketches. 

he  so  much  enjoined  and  exempHfied  ;  for  fanati- 
cism is  never  charitable.  His  Journals  show  that 
he  early  broke  away  from  his  High-Church  exclu- 
siveness  ;  that  he  looked  back  upon  it  with  regretful 
wonder,  and  that  the  progress  of  his  self-develop- 
ment in  all  charitable  sentiments  was  steady  and 
benignant.  In  1765  he  wrote  to  his  Calvinistic 
friend  Venn :  "  I  desire  to  have  a  league,  offensive 
and  defensive,  with  every  soldier  of  Christ.  We 
have  not  only  one  faith,  one  hope,  one  Lord,  but 
are  directly  engaged  in  one  warfare.  We  are  car- 
rying the  war  into  the  devil's  own  quarters,  who, 
therefore,  summons  all  his  hosts  of  war.  Come, 
then,  ye  that  love  God,  to  the  help  of  the  Lord,  to 
the  help  of  the  Lord  against  the  mighty!  I  am 
now  well-nigh  miles  emeritus  senex,  sexagenarius ; 
[an  old  soldier  who  has  served  out  his  time  and  is  en- 
titled to  his  discharge — a  sexagenarian  ;]  yet  I  trust 
to  fight  a  little  longer.  Come  and  strengthen  the 
hands,  till  you  supply  the  place,  of  your  weak  but 
affectionate  brother." 

He  rejoiced  with  justifiable  pride  in  the  liberal 
terms  of  communion  in  his  societies.  "  One  cir- 
cumstance more,"  he  says,  "  is  quite  peculiar  to 
the  people  called  Methodists ;  that  is,  the  terms 
upon  which  any  persons  may  be  admitted  into 
their  society.  They  do  not  impose,  in  order  to 
their  admission,  any  opinions  whatever.  Let  them 
hold  particular  or  general  redemption,  absolute  or 


Wesley— Apostleship.  37 1 

conditional  decrees.  .  .  .  They  think,  and  let  others 
tliink.  One  condition,  and  one  only,  is  required — 
a  real  desire  to  save  their  souls.  Where  this  is,  it 
is  enough:  they  desire  no- more:  they  lay  stress 
upon  nothing  else :  they  ask  only,  '  Is  thy  heart 
herein  as  my  heart?  if  it  be,  give  me  thine  hand.* 
Is  there,"  he  adds,  *'  any  other  society  in  Great 
Britain  or  Ireland  that  is  so  remote  from  bigotry? 
that  is  so  truly  of  a  catholic  spirit?  so  ready  to 
admit  all  serious  persons  without  distinction  ? 
Where  is  there  such  another  society  in  Europe? 
in  the  habitable  world?  I  know  none.  Let  any 
man  show  it  me  that  can.  Till  then  let  no  one 
talk  of  the  bigotry  of  the  Methodists." 

This  he  wrote  no  less  than  three  years  before  his 
death.  In  these  latter  years  of  his  life  he  was 
continually  inculcating  such  sentiments  among  his 
people ;  he  often  took  occasion  in  his  public  assem- 
blies to  expound  formally  this  liberality  of  his 
cause.  When  in  his  eighty-fifth  year,  preaching  in 
Glasgow,  he  says :  "  I  subjoined  a  short  account  of 
Methodism,  particularly  insisting  on  the  circum- 
stance— there  is  no  other  religious  society  under 
heaven  which  requires  nothing  of  men,  in  order  to 
their  admission  into  it,  but  a  desire  to  save  their 
souls.  Look  all  around  you,  you  cannot  be  ad- 
mitted into  the  Church  or  society  of  the  Presby- 
terians, Anabaptists,  Quakers,  or  any  others,  unless 
you  hold  the  same  opinions  with  them,  and  adhere 


372  Character-Sketches. 

to  the  same  mode  of  worship.  The  Methodists 
alone  do  not  insist  on  your  holding  this  or  that 
opinion.  .  .  .  Now,  I  do  not  know  any  other  re- 
ligious society,  either  ancient  or  modern,  wherein 
such  liberty  of  conscience  is  now  allowed,  or  has 
been  allowed,  since  the  age  of  the  apostles.  Here 
is  our  glorying,  and  a  glorying  peculiar  to  us. 
What  society  shares  it  with  us  ?  " 

When  eighty-six  years  old  he  still  repeats  the 
noble  boast.  *' I  returned  to  Redruth,"  he  says, 
and  applied  to  the  great  congregation,  '  God  was 
in  Christ,  reconciling  the  world  unto  himself.'  I 
then  met  the  society,  and  explained  at  large  the 
rise  and  nature  of  Methodism  ;  and  still  aver  I  have 
never  read  or  heard  of,  either  in  ancient  or  modern 
history,  any  other  Church  which  builds  on  so  broad 
a  foundation  as  the  Methodists  do ;  which  requires 
of  its  members  no  conformity  either  in  opinions  or 
modes  of  worship,  but  barely  this  one  thing ;  to  fear 
God  and  work  righteousness." 

His  only  restriction  on  opinions  in  his  societies, 
was  that  they  should  not  be  obtruded  for  discus- 
sion or  wrangling  in  their  devotional  meetings ; 
not  the  creed  of  a  man,  but  his  moral  conduct  re- 
specting it,  was  a  question  of  discipline  with  primi- 
tive Methodism.  The  possible  results  of  such 
liberality  were  once  discussed  in  the  Conference. 
Wesley  conclusively  determined  the  debate  by  re- 
marking :  "  I   have  no   more   right   to  object   to  a 


Wesley—Apostlesiup.  373 

man  for  holding  a  different  opinion  from  me,  than 
I  have  to  differ  with  a  man  because  he  wears  a  wi<r 
and  I  wear  my  own  hair;  but  if  he  takes  his  wig 
off",  and  begins  to  shake  the  powder  about  my  eyes, 
I  shall  consider  it  my  duty  to  get  quit  of  him  as 
soon  as  possible." 

*'  Is  a  man,"  he  writes,  "  a  believer  in  Jesus 
Christ,  and  is  his  life  suitable  to  his  profession?  are 
not  only  the  main,  but  the  sole  inquiries  1  make  in 
order  to  his  admission  into  our  society."  He  ab- 
horred controversy,  and  seldom  engaged  in  it  when 
it  was  not  necessary  in  self-defense.  *'  How  gladly," 
he  wrote  to  a  friend,  alluding  to  four  simultaneous 
publications  against  him,  **  how  gladly  would  I  leave 
all  these  to  themselves  and  let  them  say  just  what 
they  please !  as  my  day  is  far  spent,  and  my  taste 
for  controversy  is  utterly  lost  and  gone;"  and  at 
another  time  he  laments  that  he  "  had  to  spend 
near  ten  minutes  in  controversy"  in  one  of  his 
public  assemblies ;  more  than  "  he  had  done  in 
public  for  many  months,  perhaps  years,  before." 

Wesley  was  not  only  in  advance  of  his  own  age 
in  this  as  in  many  other  respects  ;  he  was  in  advance 
of  ours.  Many  of  his  own  people  would  now  fear  the 
consequences  of  such  unusual  liberality;  he  com- 
mitted himself  to  it  in  ways  that  might  subject  any 
one  of  his  preachers,  in  this  day,  to  serious  suspi- 
cion, if  not  to  greater  inconvenience.  He  abridged 
and  published  in  his  Arminian  Magazine,  as  an  ex- 


374  Character-Sketches. 

ample  for  his  people,  the  Life  of  Thomas  Firmin,  a 
Unitarian,  and  declared  in  his  preface,  that  though 
he  had  **  long  settled  in  his  mind  that  the  enter- 
taining of  wrong  notions  concerning  the  Trinity 
was  inconsistent  with  real  piety,"  yet,  "  as  he  could 
not  argue  against  matter-of-fact,"  "  he  dare  not 
deny  that  Mr.  Firmin  was  a  pious  man,  although 
his  notions  of  the  Trinity  were  quite  erroneous." 
He  never  hesitated  to  recognize  the  moral  worth  of 
any  man,  however  branded  in  history,  and  however 
he  differed  from  himself  in  opinion.  He  *'  doubted 
whether  that  arch-heretic,  Montanus,  was  not  one  of 
the  holiest  men  of  the  second  century."  "Yea,"  he 
adds,  '*  I  would  not  affirm  that  the  arch-heretic  of 
the  fifth  century,  (Pelagius,)  as  plentifully  as  he  has 
been  bespattered  for  many  ages,  was  not  one  of  the 
holiest  men  of  that  age."  He  admired  the  piety  of 
the  best  writers  of  the  Latin  Church,  and  made  some 
of  their  works  household  books  for  Methodist  fam- 
ilies. At  a  time  when  the  name  of  Arminius  was  a 
synonym  of  heresy,  he  not  only  openly  acknowl- 
^  edged  his  evangelical  orthodoxy,  but  boldly  placed 
the  branded  name  of  the  great  misrepresented  the- 
ologian on  the  periodical  which  he  published  as  the 
organ  of  Methodism.  It  was  his  extraordinary  lib- 
erality that  made  him  a  problem,  if  not  a  heretic, 
in  the  estimation  of  many  of  his  pious  contempora- 
ries. His  sermon  on  the  "  Catholic  Spirit "  would 
excite  a  sensation  of  surprise,  if  not  of  alarm,  in 


.\\b..^LhV — Al'U.sl  I.KSIIII'.  375 

many  a  modern  orthodox  congregation.  Yet  what 
modern  theologian  has  held  more  tenaciously,  or 
defined  more  accurately,  the  doctrines  of  spiritual 
Christianity  ? 

Such  a  mind  could  be  neither  weak  nor  wick- 
ed;  and  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  deeds 
or  the  sentiments  of  John  Wesley  show  most  the 
genuine  supremacy  of  the  man.  His  double 
excellence  proves  his  double  superiority  over  his 
age. 

It  has  sometimes  been  asked  whether  he  is  enti- 
tled to  rank  in  the  highest  class  of  illustrious  men  ? 
The  question  is  vague,  and  hardly  admits  of  an 
unqualified  answer.  Of  the  two  highest  classes 
of  great  men — the  speculative,  or  philosophical 
thinkers,  on  the  one  hand ;  and  the  practical,  com- 
prising great  legislators,  captains,  and  inventors,  on 
the  other— it  may  be  doubted  which  is  entitled  to 
the  supremacy.  The  former,  if  we  do  not  include 
in  it  the  poetic,  the  artistic  genius,  has  afforded 
comparatively  little  advantage  to  mankind,  beyond 
an  exhibition  of  the  greatness  of  the  human  facul- 
ties. Speculative  inquiry  has  seldom  given  to  the 
world  an  important,  demonstrated  truth.  It  is 
doubtful  that  it  has  yet  afforded  a  single  unques- 
tionable result  in  the  highest  field  of  its  research 
— that  exalted  sphere  of  abstract  truth  which  is 
usually  called  speculative  philosophy;  and  its  in- 
vestigations of  the  constitution  of  the  human  mind 


3/6  Character-Sketches. 

are  yet  far  from  settling,  with  scientific  certainty, 
any  theory  of  psychology. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  single  remarkable  practical 
life,  sometimes  a  single  act  of  such  a  Hfe,  has  ad- 
vanced appreciably  the  whole  civilized  world.  A 
mighty  captain  has  broken  the  chains  of  a  nation.  A 
sagacious  legislator  has  set  free  the  energies  of  mill- 
ions of  men  for  progress  in  all  useful  enterprises. 
A  single  philanthropist  has  initiated  improvements 
in  the  administration  of  justice  that  have  alleviated 
the  anguish  of  tens  of  thousands,  have  reformed 
the  prison  discipline  and  penal  jurisprudence  of  his 
country,  and  promise  yet  to  turn  prisons  into  schools, 
and  to  render  the  gallows  a  barbarity,  abhorrent  as 
well  to  the  justice,  as  to  the  mercy  of  mankind.  A  dif- 
fident, poor,  and  drudging  artisan,  by  the  invention 
of  the  steam-engine,  has  given  to  his  own  country 
an  aggregate  of  steam-power  equal  to  the  labor  of 
more  than  four  hundred  millions  of  men  ;  more  than 
equal  to  twice  the  number  of  males  capable  of  labor 
on  our  planet — an  invention  which  has  already,  in 
its  combined  power  throughout  the  globe,  a  capac- 
ity for  work  equal  to  the  male  capacity  for  manual 
toil  of  five  or  six  planets  like  ours.  Such  a  man 
may  be  said  to  create  new  worlds  on  the  surface  of 
our  own. 

Even  the  most  illustrious  mind  which  has  influ- 
enced modern  scientific  inquiry,  while  teaching  the 
world  how  to  think,  never  discovered  a  new  scien- 


Wesley— ArosTLEsuiP.  377 

tific  fact.  Bacon  gave  not  a  single  original  inven- 
tion to  the  practical  arts;  though  his  mighty  intel- 
lect, expounding  and  systematizing  a  thought  that 
was  scientifically  as  old  as  Aristotle,  and  practically 
as  old  as  human  reason,  has  directed  all  subsequent 
practical  studies. 

The  classification  of  extraordinary  men  must 
inevitably  be  difficult  and  ambiguous ;  but  the 
genius  which  most  influences  the  sentiments,  if 
not  the  intellect  of  men,  the  genius  of  illustrious 
painters,  sculptors,  architects,  and  poets,  may 
perhaps  be  more  relevantly  included  in  the  class 
of  great  practical,  than  in  that  of  great  specula- 
tive minds.  The  speculations  of  Plato,  Descartes, 
Leibnitz,  and  Kant,  considered  apart  from  the 
beneficial  example  of  superior  intellectual  power 
that  they  present,  have  added  little  or  nothing  to 
the  advancement  of  the  race ;  and  the  few  exam- 
ples of  practical  utility  that  can  be  cited  from  the 
history  of  philosophic  thinkers  might  be  claimed  as 
exceptional  to  their  usual  classification.  Even  the 
mathematicians  rank  doubtfully,  at  least,  between 
the  two  classes  :  the  discoveries  of  Newton  apper- 
tain to  the  physical  world  ;  and  the  greatest  of  his 
successors  has  legitimately  placed  the  proudest 
monument  of  astronomical  knowledge  in  the  class 
of  scientific  mechanics.  But  amid  the  ambiguities 
besetting  this  question — a  question  more  curious, 
perhaps,  than  important — there  can  be  no  hesitancy 


378  Character-Sketches. 

in  placing  John  Wesley  in  the  first  rank  of  those 
historical  men  whose  prominence  in  the  legislature, 
the  cabinet,  the  field,  philanthropy,  or  in  any  sphere 
of  active  life,  is  attributable  to  their  practical  sagac- 
ity, energy,  and  success.  In  these  three  respects 
what  man  in  history  transcends  him?  If  it  can  be 
affirmed  that  he  was  far  from  being  an  original,  a 
profound  thinker ;  that,  as  some  of  his  critics  have 
pronounced,  his  mind  was  more  *'  logical,"  or  "  in- 
tuitional," *  than  philosophic,  yet  who  can  deny 
him  the  tribute  of  the  historian  of  his  country,  that 
he  conducted  *'  a  most  remarkable  moral  revolution  ; 
was  a  man  whose  eloquence  and  logical  acuteness 
mieht  have  rendered  him  eminent  in  literature; 
whose  genius  for  government  was  not  inferior  to 
that  of  Richelieu,  and  who,  whatever  his  errors  may 
have  been,  devoted  all  his  powers,  in  defiance  of 
obloquy  and  derision,  to  what  he  sincerely  consid- 
ered the  highest  good  of  his  species.  Such  was 
Macaulay's  opinion;  Buckle  pronounces  him '' the 
first  of  theological  statesmen."  The  somewhat 
vague  affirmation  that  his  mind  was  more  intuitional 
than  philosophical,  if  it  has  any  meaning  at  all, 
must  signify  that  his  sagacity  was  so  rapid  and  ac- 
curate that  the  processes  of  reasoning  and  judg- 
ment, usual  in  other  men,  were  not  absent,  but 
scarcely  perceptible  in  his  clear  and  prompt  intel- 
lect.    The  results,  or  the  practical  facts  with  which 

*  The  first  is  Coleridge's,  the  second,  Isaac  Taylor's  opinion. 


Weslev—Apostlesiiip.  379 

Wesley  had  to  deal,  like  all  the  practical  affairs  of 
men,  must  always  be  contingent,  and  there  can  be 
no  intuition  of  contingent  results.  Their  right  an- 
ticipation must  be  the  effect  of  calculations  and 
combinations  of  the  intellect. 

If  Wesley  was  deficient  in  what  constitutes  the 
highest  speculative  or  philosophic  mind,  this  de- 
ficiency itself  may  have  been  a  necessary  qualifica- 
tion for  the  more  utilitarian  greatness  to  which 
he  was  appointed.  It  was  necessary  that  he  should 
be  a  great  legislator  in  order  to  render  se- 
cure his  achievements  in  so  many  other  respects. 
Speculative  philosophers  have  seldom  been  good 
legislators  ;  the  history  of  great  men  affords  not  one 
example  of  the  two  characters  combined.  The  Re- 
public of  Plato  is  still  an  ideal  system  of  beautiful 
impossibilities  to  statesmen :  the  Politics  of  Aris- 
totle have  seldom  had  a  legislative  copyist ;  the 
Utopia  of  Sir  Thomas  More  is  still  a  Utopia,  the 
source  of  proverbial  expression  to  our  language, 
but  of  no  laws  to  our  commonwealths;  the  new 
Atlantis  of  Bacon  is  yet  a  dream,  notwithstanding 
its  utilitarian  suggestions ;  Locke's  Fundamental 
Constitutions  of  Carolina  were  found  impractica- 
ble ;  and  Rousseau's  Contrat  Social  ranks  only  as  an 
example  of  political  rhetoric.  But  John  Wesley 
founded  an  ecclesiastical  system  that  has  only  be- 
come more  efficient  by  the  lapse  of  a  hundred  years, 
and  that   is   acknowledged    to   be   more  effective, 


38o  Character-Sketches. 

whether  for  good  or  evil,  than  any  other  in  the 
Protestant  world.  More  than  has  been  usual  with 
the  founders  of  systems  of  policy,  whether  in  Church 
or  State,  it  was  his  own  work.  His  most  invid- 
ious though  most  entertaining  biographer,  Rob- 
ert Southey,  has  acknowledged  his  ability  as  a  legis- 
lator, and  conceded  that  "  whatever  power  was  dis- 
played in  the  formation  of  the  economy  of  Method- 
ism was  his  own."  He  began  his  great  work  not 
only  without  prestige,  but  in  entirely  adverse  cir- 
cumstances. The  moral  condition  of  the  nation 
which  required  his  extraordinary  plans,  was  the 
most  formidable  difficulty  to  their  prosecution.  He 
threw  himself  out  upon  the  general  demoralization 
without  reputation,  without  influential  friends,  with- 
out money,  with  no  other  resource  than  the  power 
within  him  and  the  God  above  him.  Before  he  had 
fairly  begun  his  extraordinary  career,  he  was  re- 
duced even  below  the  ordinary  advantages  of  com- 
mon English  clergymen;  he  had  become  already 
the  object  of  derision  ;  he  had  no  church,  and  was 
turned  out  of  the  pulpits  of  his  brethren.  Except- 
ing some  insignificant  societies,  like  that  of  Fetter 
Lane,  the  highway  or  the  field,  and  the  reckless  mob, 
were  all  that  remained  to  him.  But  he  began  his 
work:  he  united  his  rude  converts  into  "  Bands," 
formed  "  Classes,"  built  Chapels,  appointed  Trust- 
ees, Stewards,  Leaders,  Exhorters ;  organized  a 
Lay  Ministry,  and  rallied  into  it  men  of  extraordi- 


Weslkv— Apostlesiiip.  3S1 

nary  characters  and  talents  ;  founded  the  Confer- 
ence ;  gave  his  societies  a  discipline  and  a  consti- 
tution, a  literature,  a  psalmody  and  a  liturgy ;  saw 
his  cause  established  in  the  United  States  with  an 
episcopal  organization,  planted  in  the  British  North 
American  Provinces,  and  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
died  at  last  with  his  system  apparently  complet- 
ed, universally  effective  and  prosperous,  sustained 
by  five  hundred  and  fifty  itinerant,  thousands  of 
local  preachers,  more  than  a  hundred  and  forty 
thousand  members,  and  so  energetic  that  many 
men  who  had  been  his  co-laborers  lived  to  see  it 
the  predominant  body  of  Dissenters  in  the  United 
Kingdom  and  the  British  Colonies,  the  most  nu- 
merous Church  of  the  United  States  of  America, 
and  successfully  planted  on  most  of  the  outlines  of 
the  missionary  world. 

The  success  of  such  a  career  depends,  of  course, 
much  upon  "circumstances;"  but  circumstances 
may  develop  great  men,  they  cannot  create  them. 
He  is  great  who  can  turn  favorable  circumstances 
to  great  account ;  he  is  greater  who  can  create  his 
own  favorable  circumstances,  as  well  as  turn  them 
to  account.  Wesley  did  both.  The  success  which 
depends  on  external  conditions  is  often  impaired  or 
defeated  by  the  lack  of  the  comprehensive  vigilance 
and  skill  that  can  control  the  whole  series  of  circum- 
stances essential  to  success ;  often  the  critical  one 
in  the  scries  may  be  obscure ;  the  key  to  the  whole 


382*  Character-Sketches. 

may,  therefore,  be  lost  in  an  unguarded  emergency, 
and  many  a  career  brilliantly  begun  has  thus  come 
to  an  impotent  conclusion.  It  was  next  to  impossi- 
ble for  Wesley  to  have  failed  in  this  manner.  Not 
only  his  clear  discernment  saw,  but  his  unintermit- 
ted  and  steady  energy  seized  and  appropriated,  all 
facilities,  small  and  great.  If  it  should  be  said  that 
he  had  superfluous  labors,  it  certainly  cannot  be 
said  that  he  had  deficient  diligence ;  and  if  he 
sometimes  availed  himself  of  unnecessary  circum- 
stances, it  was  hardly  possible  that  he  could  lose  a 
necessary  one. 

Few  men  have  shown  more  than  Wesley  that 
self-possession  or  repose  characteristic  of  the  most 
elevated  minds,  and  which  art  has  instinctively 
impressed  upon  the  classic  works  of  antiquity. 
It  was,  doubtless,  one  of  the  causes  as  well  as 
one  of  the  indications  of  his  power.  He  could 
hardly  be  disconcerted,  or  thrown  from  the  right 
attitude  of  his  strength.  He  moved,  year  after 
year,  through  varied  and  intolerable  opposition — 
attacks  from  the  press,  the  pulpit,  and  the  mob ; 
but  he  always  appears  the  same  calm,  powerful 
man.  It  was  not  his  temperament  alone,  but  his 
faith,  as  much  or  more,  which  thus  sustained  him. 
He  believed  that  he  was  right,  and,  therefore, 
trusted  consequences  to  God ;  and  wrongs  from 
which  the  noblest  natures  would  most  revolt  could 
not   arrest  or  dismay  him.     During  the  Calvinistic 


Wesley— Apostleship.  383 

controversy  some  of  his  opponents  had  the  confi- 
dence of  his  intractable  wife,  who  had  not  only 
deserted  him,  but  had  carried  with  her  his  papers 
and  correspondence,  and  refused  to  return  them. 
The  correspondence  is  known  to  have  been  interpo- 
lated in  such  a  way  as  to  appear  to  justify  her 
monomaniacal  jealousy.  It  was  about  to  be  pub- 
lished in  the  **  Morning  Post"  by  his  antagonists ; 
but  one  of  their  own  party,  out  of  regard  to  the 
honor  of  reHgion,  hastened  to  Charles  Wesley,  and 
entreated  him  to  communicate  the  fact  to  his 
brother,  that,  if  possible,  the  scandal  might  be 
averted.  The  letters  were  to  be  published  on  the 
morrow,  but  Wesley  had  an  engagement  to  preach 
that  day  at  Canterbury,  and  had  promised  to 
take  with  him  the  daughter  of  his  brother,  to 
gratify  her  with  a  view  of  the  ancient  .cathedral. 
Charles,  alarmed  at  the  prospect,  hastened  to 
Foundry  Chapel.  "  Never,"  writes  his  daughter, 
"shall  I  forget  the  manner  in  which  my  father 
accosted  my  mother  on  his  return  home.  '  My 
brother,'  said  he,  *  is  indeed  an  extraordinary  man. 
I  placed  before  him  the  importance  of  the  character 
of  a  minister ;  the  evil  consequences  which  might 
result  from  his  indifference  to  it ;  the  cause  of 
religion ;  stumbling-blocks  cast  in  the  way  of  the 
weak ;  and  urged  him  by  every  relative  and  public 
motive  to  answer  for  himself,  and  stop  the  publica- 
tion.    His  reply  was,  'Brother,  when  I  devoted  to 


384  Character-Sketches. 

God  my  ease,  my  time,  my  life,  did  I  except  my 
reputation  ?  No.  Tell  Sally  I  will  take  her  to 
Canterbury  to-morrow.'  I  ought  to  add,  that  the 
letters  in  question  were  satisfactorily  proved  to  be 
mutilated,  and  no  scandal  resulted  from  his  trust 
in  God." 

A  fact  like  this,  with  a  man  like  Wesley,  speaks 
to  all  hearts ;  but  its  noblest  significance  can  be 
known  only  to  the  noblest  minds. 

But  was  he  faultless  ?  If  he  had  been,  he  would 
have  been  less  admirable  to  us,  for  the  truest  hu- 
man greatness  is  in  the  combat  with  evil ;  he  would 
have  been  less  suited  for  his  great  work,  for  to 
men,  rather  than  to  angels,  has  the  Gospel  been 
committed. 

Besides  the  minute  imperfections  which  belong 
to  most  men,  Wesley  has  been  charged  with  ambi- 
tion and  credulity. 

The  writer  who  has  dwelt  most  upon  the  latter 
weakness  has,  nevertheless,  however  inconsistently, 
deemed  it  a  sort  of  fitness  for  Wesley's  peculiar 
mission,  and,  with  a  noticeable  credulity  himself, 
has  supposed  that  even  the  mysterious  noises  at 
the  Epworth  rectory  were  preternatural,  or  at  least 
extramundane  ;  that  they  were  a  means  of  laying 
open  his  faculty  of  belief,  and  of  creating  a  right 
of  way  for  the  supernatural  through  his  mind. 
When  it  is  remembered  that  Wesley's  age  was  one 
of  general  skepticism  among  thinkers,  we  cannot 


Wesley— Apostleship.  385 

be  surprised  if  he  revolted,  in  his  great  work,  to 
the  opposite  extreme ;  and  the  error  was  certainly 
on  the  better  side.  Credulity  might  have  injured 
his  work,  but  skepticism  would  have  rendered  it 
impossible. 

If  his  followers  cannot  deny  the  charge ;  if  they 
must  admit  that  in  a  certain  form  this  defect  is 
pervasive  in  his  Journals  and  fragmentary  writings, 
yet  should  they  make  the  admission  with  well- 
guarded  qualifications.  They  should  remind  them- 
selves that  he  seldom  gives  a  direct  opinion  of  the 
supposed  preternatural  facts  which  he  so  often 
records ;  that  they  are  presented  with  circumstan- 
tial particularity  as  the  data  for  an  opinion  on  the 
part  of  others ;  that,  singularly  enough,  and  a  note- 
worthy proof  of  his  good  sense,  they  seldom  or 
never  appear  in  his  standard  theological  writings, 
hardly  tinge  the  works  which  he  left  for  the  prac- 
tical guidance  of  his  people,  but  are  almost  invaria- 
bly given  as  matters  of  curiosity  and  inquiry  in  his 
miscellaneous  and  fugitive  writings ;  and  that  no 
one  doctrine  or  usage  of  Methodism  was  permitted 
by  him  to  bear  the  slightest  impression  of  them  to 
posterity. 

The  severity  with  which  this  weakness  of  Wesley 
has  been  treated  by  his  critics  is  an  exception  to  the 
usual  treatment  of  historical  characters ;  for  what 
distinguished  man  has  not  had  some  marked  eccen- 
tricity of  opinion  or  of  conduct  ?  And  what  was  this 
25 


386  Character-Sketches. 

defect  of  Wesley  but  an  eccentricity  of  opinion  ? 
If  it  was  characteristic  of  his  opinions,  it  was  not 
characteristic  of  the  man ;  for  what  man  was  more 
rigorously  practical  in  piety,  or  more  liberal  about 
opinions?  what  man  ever  combined  the  noble,  self- 
possessed  enthusiasm  essential  to  the  heroic  char- 
acter, with  so  little  of  the  passion  or  uncharitable- 
ness  that  is  an  essential  of  fanaticism?  His  critics 
would  impair  his  authority  as  a  thinker  by  con- 
temning his  credulity  ;  but  they  deem  it  no  wonder, 
or  at  least  no  detraction,  if  indeed  not  an  amia- 
ble illustration  of  the  heart,  apart  from  the  intellect, 
of  his  friend,  the  most  influential  writer  as  well  as 
the  most  prominent  moralist  of  his  age,  who  shared 
so  largely  this  very  weakness  of  Wesley.  Men  who 
sneer  at  Wesley  are  but  amused  when,  in  reading 
the  pages  of  Boswell,  they  find  Johnson  dissenting 
from  a  ghost  story  of  Wesley's,  only  because  the 
latter  did  not,  in  his  opinion,  investigate  the  case 
sufficiently,  affirming  that  "  this  is  a  question  which, 
after  five  thousand  years,  is  yet  undecided ;  a  ques^ 
tion,  whether  in  theology  or  philosophy,  one  of  the 
most  important  that  can  come  before  the  human 
understanding."  Plato,  as  Johnson  called  Wesley, 
might  well  linger  when  all  the  rest  of  the  audience 
had  slunk  away,  if  Johnson  still  stood  in  the  lectur- 
er's desk.  The  Cock  Lane  ghost  story  has  never 
impaired  Johnson's  rank  as  an  author;  but  had 
Wesley  shown  the  superstitious  weakness   of  the 


Wesley — Apostleship.  387 

literary  giant  in  many  well-known  and  ludicrous 
instances,  he  could  scarcely  have  been  treated  with 
more  scorn  than  he  has  incurred  by  his  record  of 
supposed  preternatural  facts,  of  a  class,  too,  which 
have  not  yet  ceased  to  be  believed  by  the  most  of 
mankind.  He  recorded  these  facts,  it  should  be 
borne  in  mind,  in  an  age  in  which  Christian  Scotland 
executed  at  the  stake  a  supposed  witch,  and  in  the 
next  century  after  that  in  which  the  good  Sir 
Matthew  Hale  had  condemned  to  the  gibbet  two 
women  for  witchcraft ;  when  the  great  Bacon  had 
avowed  his  belief  in  astrology,  and  sat  in  a  Parlia- 
ment in  which  an  enactment  was  passed  against 
witchcraft — a  statute  not  repealed  till  Wesley  him- 
self was  thirty-three  years  old. 

The  treatment  that  Wesley  has  received  on  ac- 
count of  this  one  weakness,  so  different  from  the 
usual  charity  of  writers  toward  great  men,  is  per- 
haps a  real  though  undesigned  compliment.  It 
would  seem  to  arise  from  the  fact  that  little  else 
can  be  found  for  sarcasm  in  his  pure  life  and  noble 
character,  and  that  this  therefore  must  be  made 
as  available  as  possible. 

It  has  not,  however,  sufficed  to  save  him  from 
the  imputation  of  ambition.  This  charge  affords, 
in  fine,  the  chief  explanation  of  his  extraordinary 
life  to  his  best  known  biographer.  According  to 
that  writer,  "  no  conqueror  or  poet  was  ever  more 
ambitious,"  and  "  the  love  of  power  was  the  ruling 


388  Character-Sketches. 

passion  of  his  mind."  It  is  due  to  Southey,  how- 
ever, to  say  that  he  acknowledged  the  error  of  this 
charge.  An  admirable  defense  of  Wesley  by  a 
Churchman,  who  personally  knew  him  during  many 
years,  convinced  his  biographer  of  his  error.  **  I 
had  formed  a  wrong  estimate  of  Wesley's  charac- 
ter,*' he  says,  "  in  supposing  him  to  have  been 
actuated  by  ambition."  A  letter  is  also  extant  in 
which  he  again  confesses  that  he  "  is  convinced  that 
he  was  mistaken  in  supposing  ambition  entered 
largely  into  Mr.  Wesley's  acting  impulses,"  and 
promises  *'  to  make  such  alterations  in  the  book  as 
are  required  in  consequence." 

That  Wesley  loved  power  would  be  no  very  seri- 
ous charge.  Power,  as  a  means  of  success  and  use- 
fulness, may  be  as  desirable  as  any  other  talent,  as 
genius  itself;  the  vice  is  not  in  the  passion,  but  in 
its  motive ;  to  indulge  it  for  selfish  ends  would  be 
pernicious  and  criminal,  as  the  pursuit  of  money  or 
of  any  other  means  of  success  would  be ;  but  as  a 
means  for  the  accomplishment  of  good  ends,  it  may 
be  as  virtuous  as  the  diligent  pursuit  of  resources 
by  the  philanthropist,  or  of  intelligence  by  the  stu- 
dent. Wesley's  whole  life  was  a  demonstration 
that  he  sought  not  power  for  himself.  What  man 
ever  more  thoroughly  sacrificed  the  usual  selfish 
motives  of  ambition?  What  human  life  was  ever 
more  consecrated  to  the  welfare  of  others  ?  That 
he  had  a  conscious  pleasure  in  the  useful  exercise 


Wesley—Apostleship.  389 

• 

of  his  great  but  unsought  power  need  not  be  de- 
nied ;  it  was  the  right  of  his  power,  as  his  power 
was  the  right  of  his  talents  and  position.  He 
would  have  been  an  exception  to  the  usual  and 
beneficent  law  of  nature  herself,  in  this  respect,  had 
he  not  known  that  exalted  pleasure.  Nature  ac- 
companies her  endowments  with  instinctive  dispo- 
sitions for  their  use.  The  man  who  is  constituted 
or  capacitated  for  the  exercise  of  power  would  not 
be  in  harmony  with  himself  if  he  had  not  the  in- 
stinctive enjoyment  of  his  appointed  task  ;  and  the 
highest  moral  law  of  his  position  requires,  not  that 
he  should  be  unconscious  of  this  enjoyment,  but 
that  he  should  consecrate  it  by  benevolent  motives, 
and  regulate  it  by  that  "temperance  in  all  things" 
which,  if  it  is  a  self-denial  to  the  vices,  is  still  more 
an  enhancement  of  the  virtues. 

Many  of  the  foregoing  remarks  apply  to  Wesley's 
personal  religious  character,  and  on  that  subject 
scarcely  an  additional  word  is  needed.  '*  By  their 
fruits  ye  shall  know  them  ;"  and  the  whole  narrative 
of  his  life  is  an  illustration  of  his  piety.  One  ob- 
servation, however,  is  worthy  of  emphatic  record : 
that  while  few,  if  any,  modern  public  teachers  have 
treated  more  of  the  principles  of  the  spiritual  life, 
or  held  up  a  higher  standard  of  them — of  Justifica- 
tion, Regeneration,  Sanctification,  and  the  evidences 
and  tests  which  apply  to  them — few,  if  any,  have 
been  more  exempt  from   the  taint  of  Mysticism, 


390  Character-Sketches. 

He  threw  to  the  winds  the  mystic  doctrines  while 
returning,  on  the  ocean,  from  Georgia ;  and  it  is  a 
noteworthy  fact,  that  except  the  early  and  compar- 
atively brief  period  of  his  spiritual  awakening,  and 
of  his  intercourse  with  the  Moravian  brethren,  the 
minute  record  of  his  life,  presented  in  his  Journals, 
contains  hardly  an  instance  of  that  introspective 
and  hypochondriacal  anxiety  which  weakens  most 
religious  biographies.  We  meet  in  this  wonder- 
ful autobiography  with  occasional  and  brief  ejac- 
ulations of  prayer  and  praise,  but  with  no  self- 
anatomization.  It  is  vigorous  with  the  cheerful 
moral  health  of  his  own  mind  throughout,  how- 
ever marred  by  the  narration  of  disease  in  other 
minds. 

Methodism  spread  so  rapidly,  and  was  so  much 
in  contrast  with  the  religious  teachings  of  the 
times,  that  it  was  natural  enough  it  should  come 
in  contact  with  morbid  consciences  almost  every- 
where ;  some  of  the  characters  prominent  in  early 
Methodism  were  doubtless  subjects  of  mental  as 
well  as  of  moral  disease ;  but  Methodism  was  not 
responsible  for  the  fact.  It  found  such  sufferers  scat- 
tered throughout  its  course ;  if  in  some  instances 
they  sought  in  it  excitement  which  could  only  ex- 
asperate their  malady,  it  nevertheless,  in  most  in- 
stances, brought  them  the  relief  which  they  could 
not  find  in  the  heartless  religious  formalities  of  the 
age.      And,  above  all,  the   practical  character  of 


Wesley— Apostleship.  391 

Wesley's  own  c^enius  was  so  impressed  upon  his 
discipline,  that  religious  melancholy  was  usually 
sooner  or  later  dispelled  by  the  energetic  and 
beneficent  practical  habits  to  which  his  followers 
were  trained.  Without  designing  it,  he  established 
a  religious  system  which,  while  it  could  not  fail  to 
attract  diseased  minds,  was  singularly  adapted  to 
cure  them,  in  both  its  hopeful  theology  and  its  act- 
ive discipline ;  and  its  history  records  not  a  few 
affecting  cases  of  chronic  mental  disease,  in  which 
life  was  rendered  not  only  tolerable,  but  useful  and 
holy,  and  death  itself  joyful,  by  the  moral  support 
of  the  Gospel  as  taught  in  its  doctrines  and  em- 
bodied in  its  regimen. 

To  our  more  common  human  sympathies  the 
character  of  Wesley  presents  attractions  rarely  to 
be  found  in  the  records  of  the  lives  of  great  men. 
Such  records  usually  ignore  the  more  personal  or 
intimate  traits  of  public  characters.  It  would  seem, 
indeed,  to  be  assumed  in  them  that  exhibitions  of 
the  common  affections  of  our  nature  would  dero- 
gate from  their  subjects,  as  reducing  them  too 
much  to  the  common  level  of  humanity;  whereas 
it  is  precisely  in  these  respects  that  the  common 
mind  most  readily  recognizes  them,  and  the  revela- 
tions of  the  heart  in  the  life  show  the  real  man  more 
infallibly  than  the  manifestations  of  mental  power. 
It  is  doubtless  true,  also,  that  public  men,  absorbed 
in  plans  of  ambition,  or  even  of  usefulness,  often 


392  Character-Sketches. 

lose  to  some  extent  those  sensibilities  that  make 
the  whole  race  akin,  and  the  loss  of  which  can  be 
compensated  by  no  other  virtues.  Perhaps  the 
truest  proof  of  the  highest  style  of  character  is 
presented  in  the  co-existence  of  an  unimpaired 
heart  with  the  highest  development  of  the  mental 
forces,  or  the  greatest  energy  of  life. 

To  the  mass  of  mankind,  including  the  best  of 
them,  the  character  of  Luther  would  lose  much  of 
its  interest  and  worth,  were  his  passion  for  music 
and  for  nature,  his  sympathy  for  his  friends,  his 
fondness  for  his  children,  and  his  love  of  the  virtuous 
and  beautiful  Catharine  von  Bora,  unrecorded.  Not 
only  to  the  common  heart,  but  to  the  discernment 
of  the  highest  minds,  the  pure  and  mighty  reformer 
did  a  scarcely  less  noble  deed  in  rescuing  the  nun 
of  Nimptschen,  and  in  restoring  her  to  her  appro- 
priate sphere  as  a  woman,  by  placing  her  in  his 
home  and  heart,  than  he  did  by  wresting  from  the 
grasp  of  the  Pope  the  scepter  of  universal  relig- 
ious domination.  Wesley's  greatness  as  a  public 
man  is  hardly  more  distinctly  recorded  than  his 
amiability  and  tenderness  as  a  private  man.  We 
have  continually  occasion,  in  reading  his  four  vol- 
umes and  letters,  to  admire  his  personal,  apart  from 
his  public  character.  Where  can  we  find,  in  the 
records  of  historical  men,  a  more  genial,  unimpaired 
nature  amid  the  labors  and  hostiHties  of  a  long  pub- 
lic career?     His  friendships  were  strong,  even  to  an 


Wesley — Apostlesiiip.  393 

excess  of  sentiment.  His  love  of  nature  retained 
the  freshness  of  youth  in  the  decay  of  age ;  it  was 
not  so  much  a  sentiment  of  taste,  as  an  instinct  of 
his  being,  a  loving  fellowship  with  the  universal 
nature.  His  temper,  sometimes,  yet  only  momen- 
tarily, ruffled,  had  not  merely  the  serenity  of  hcalih, 
but  was  radiant  with  religious  joyfulness,  and  play- 
ful in  extreme  age  with  the  blandest  humor.  While 
moving  the  realm  by  his  activity  and  moral  power, 
he  was  the  welcome  guest  of  humble  households, 
the  delight  of  dinner-tables,  the  familiar  companion 
of  children. 

While  hundreds  of  stalwart  itinerants  responded 
to  his  commands,  as  veterans  to  the  orders  of  a  lead- 
er on  the  field,  and  mobs  recoiled  before  his  calm 
but  mighty  word,  while  rude  armies  of  ten,  twenty, 
thirty  thousands  listened,  wept  or  prayed,  under 
his  discourses,  on  the  mountain  sides  or  in  the 
market-places,  his  sympathetic  presence  brought 
light  and  consolation  to  the  hearths  of  desolate 
homes,  to  the  despair  of  deathbeds,  to  the  guilt  and 
anguish  of  prisons,  to  the  frenzy  even  of  the  mad- 
house. But  did  this  man — so  illustrious,  and  yet  so 
simple  that  the  simplicity  of  his  anomalous  life 
seems  the  most  inexplicable  fact  of  its  distinction — 
in  his  stern,  inflexible  career,  extending  through 
most  of  a  century,  in  his  life  apparently  never 
knowing  privacy,  did  he  himself  know  the  affec- 
tions and  tenderness  which  he  so  generally  excited. 


394  Character-Sketches. 

the  sorrow  which  he  so  often  touched  and  turned 
into  joy — did  his  "heart  know  its  own  bitterness?" 
Was  this  never-resting  Hfe  —  these  wanderings  to 
and  fro  while  more  than  two  generations  of  men 
were  passing  away — the  effect  of  a  passion  for  pub- 
lic life  that  had  extinguished  the  usual  instincts 
of  the  heart  for  wife,  children,  and  home,  for  the 
privacy  in  which  the  heart  best  lives,  for  quiet  and 
rest,  and  the  affections?  How  often,  reading  his 
Journals,  do  we  see  him,  in  scenes  of  rural  repose, 
or  of  domestic  virtue,  longing  for  relief  from  the 
restless  duties  of  his  career ;  for  a  home,  however 
humble,  where,  with  books  and  meditative  tran- 
quillity, he  might  live  more  unto  himself,  or  for  the 
few  that  might  be  dearer  to  him  than  himself! 
But  one  sublime  and  mysterious  word  always  broke 
the  spell  of  these  seductive  wishes — Eternity  !  ''  I 
believe  there  is  an  eternity,  and  must  arise  and  go 
hence  !  " 

Poetry  and  music  were  natural  endowments  with 
him,  as  with  most  of  his  remarkable  family.  His 
correspondence  with  his  unhappy  wife,  it  is  said, 
reveals  the  tenderest  sensibility  —  a  heart  that 
proves  him  capable  of  having  been  the  most  affec- 
tionate of  husbands.  His  numerous  published  let- 
ters to  women  correspondents  are  the  most  charac- 
teristic of  his  writings ;  they  are  fervid  with  pure 
and  delicate  sentiment.  This  man  who  worked  so 
mightily  could  also  love  intensely.  He  never  deemed 


Wesley— ArosTLESHiP.  395 

it  necessary  to  record  an  apology  for  his  affection 
for  Grace  Murray.  All  accounts  of  her  show  that 
she  was  worthy  of  him ;  that  she  possessed  not 
only  rare  attractions  of  person  and  manners,  but 
an  elevated  soul.  She  combined  an  indefinable 
charm  of  character  with  extraordinary  talents ;  she 
formed  and  regulated  many  of  his  female  classes  in 
the  north  of  England ;  she  traveled  with  him  in 
Ireland,  and  with  womanly  grace  and  modesty,  as 
well  as  skillful  ability,  promoted  among  the  women 
of  Methodism  the  great  work  in  which  he  was  en- 
gaged. She  reciprocated  his  affection  for  her, 
though  with  shrinking  diffidence.  His  hopes  were 
defeated  by  the  management  of  his  brother  and 
Whitefield,  who  probably  apprehended  that  domes- 
tic life  would  interfere  with  his  public  labors,  and 
hastily  secured  her  marriage  to  one  of  his  preach- 
ers. He  bitterly  felt  his  loss ;  and  the  relief  which 
he  sought  in  unslackened  devotion  to  his  great 
work  is  proof  of  his  genuine  greatness  rather  than 
of  his  want  of  sensibility.  He  kept  the  painful 
recollection  locked  in  his  own  heart,  never  obtrud- 
ing it  in  any  of  his  subsequent  published  letters, 
except  in  one  instance,  when  he  ministered  relief  to 
a  Christian  friend,  in  a  similar  sorrow,  by  referring 
to  his  own,  the  keenness  of  which  he  describes  as 
extreme.  He  "  saw  his  friend  that  was,  and  him 
to  whom  she  was  sacrificed,"  immediately  after  the 
sacrifice,  but  never  again  records  an  allusion  to  her 


396  Character-Sketches. 

except  in  the  single  instance  mentioned,  and  in  a  po- 
etical account  of  her  history  and  of  his  affection  for 
her,  that  he  kept  sacredly  during  his  life,  but  that 
was  discovered  and  published  by  one  of  his  biogra- 
phers— a  long,  sad,  heart-touching  narrative,  in  which 
he  dwells  with  minutest  interest  on  every  recollec- 
tion of  the  case.  It  is  as  fine  an  example  of  his  po- 
etical power  as  of  his  capacity  for  loving.  The  preach- 
er whom  Grace  Murray  married  left  Wesley's  Con- 
nection. He  died  in  ten  years  after  his  marriage ; 
the  lady  survived  till  1803.  She  rejoined  the  Meth- 
odists, was  many  years  a  class-leader  among  them, 
and  lived  and  died  esteemed  and  beloved  by  them. 
Wesley  pursued  his  career  without  once  turning 
aside  to  re-open  the  wound  in  either  heart  by  an 
interview.  When  eighty-five  years  old  he  allowed 
himself,  however,  the  pleasure  of  a  single  conversa- 
tion with  her.  She  was  in  London,  and  expressed 
a  wish  to  see  him.  Accompanied  by  Henry  Moore, 
he  called  upon  her.  Though  he  "  preserved  more 
than  his  usual  self-possession,"  the  meeting,  says 
Moore,  was  affecting.  It  did  not  continue  long, 
and  Moore  never  heard  him  mention  her  name 
afterward. 

Such  was  the  character  of  John  Wesley;  a  char- 
acter which  no  candid  historian,  after  a  thorough 
study  of  his  life  and  works,  can  deny  to  him, 
however  desirable  it  might  seem  to  be  able  to 
attribute  to  him  greater  faults  for  the  sake  of  an 


Wesley— Apostleship.  397 

apparently  more  impartial  estimate.  The  candid 
student  of  history  will  be  able  to  find  in  all  its 
records  but  few  men  who  had  fewer  faults,  how- 
ever many  he  may  suppose  he  finds,  who  had  more 
signal  abilities  or  rarer  virtues.  For  ourselves  we 
confess  we  know  not  where  to  look  for  his  peer, 
since  the  days  of  the  chief  of  the  apostles.  Gener- 
ation after  generation  arises  to  revere  his  name,  to 
call  him  blessed,  and  to  follow  him  as  he  followed 
his  Lord.  That  good  gray  head  looks  down  from 
the  wall  of  many  a  humble  parlor:  in  unnumbered 
hearts  his  memory  is  enshrined  as  the  noblest  of 
the  later  saints,  the  "father  and  brother  "  greatly 
beloved  by  the  Church  of  the  first-born  on  the  earth 
and  in  the  heavens.  

vvivehsity] 

THE  END.^^^^^^'WX^*-!,.-:^ 


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